


Hope

by whichclothes



Series: Blindverse [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-06
Updated: 2010-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
  
  
**Entry tags:**   
|   
[50kinkyways](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/50kinkyways), [angst_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/angst_bingo), [hc_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hc_bingo), [hope](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hope), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike%2Fgiles)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Hope (1/10)**_  
 **Title:**  Hope   
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Giles  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:**  I'm not Joss  
 **Summary** :  A sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all) and [Faith](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all). A trip to San Francisco brings new challenges to Spike and Giles--and some unexpected visits from their past.  
 **A/N:**  This fic is complete and I'll post one chapter per day. Thank you, as always, to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for her wonderful beta-ing! The story incorporates the following prompts: loss of vision for [](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/) , vibrator from [](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/profile)[**50kinkyways**](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/) , and physical imperfection from [](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/) .

 **  
Hope  
**

 

 **  
One  
**

Rupert didn’t have to read to Spike. Spike had audiobooks on his iPod and he had his laptop with software for the blind and, just recently, Rupert had bought him a Kindle, which would read most books aloud to him. Really, if he had to be blind, the twenty-first century was a brilliant time for it, with all the ways technology helped make up for his missing eyesight.

But still, Rupert did read to him. On sunny afternoons sometimes, when Spike was cooped up inside and feeling bored. Or once in a while in bed, when they were both feeling pleasantly post-orgasmic and the room smelled of shagging. Or occasionally even elsewhere, like at the King’s Head over a few pints, or in the stable on a rainy day, huddled up on a few horse blankets.

Wherever and whenever Rupert read to him, and whatever he happened to be reading, Spike loved it. Loved hearing Rupert’s voice, loved pressing up close to the man and feeling the vibrations in his chest as he spoke. Loved sharing a bit of history with him, or a story, because being immersed together in the same words was nearly as intimate as having sex.

Rupert fancied it, too. He’d read for hours sometimes, fortified only by endless cups of tea until his voice went hoarse and raspy. He hadn’t ever had an audience this attentive, Spike reckoned, or one so eager to join him in the worlds that words made.

This afternoon, Spike felt especially languid and lazy. Rupert had woken up hours earlier and gone for a ride on Mage, then returned to bed smelling of leather and horses and damp grass. Spike had given him a sleepy blow job and then Rupert had brought him off with a calloused hand and a few whispered endearments. Afterward, Spike had ambled only as far as the living room and curled up on the couch, still naked, while Rupert puttered in the kitchen, making tea and heating blood. Rupert had promised to read to him until near sundown, when they’d pack up the Mini and head to the airport. They were going to take a holiday in the States. Well, Rupert was calling it a holiday, although Spike knew he had some tedious Watcher business to address. But Spike didn’t mind because Rupert was taking Spike with him. This time no avenging, possessing demons or vigilante humans would get at Rupert, not with Spike at his side.

“You do realize you’ll have to put some clothing on before we get on the airplane, don’t you?” Rupert set a mug down on the table beside Spike with a small clunk. Spike drew up his legs and the blanket a bit and Rupert sat beside him.

“’T’s a shame. Depriving the world of this, I mean,” Spike said, letting the blanket drop down to his waist and running his palm down his chest and belly. Sometimes now he nearly forgot about the scars that were there.

Rupert leaned over and kissed Spike’s shoulder. “That’s fine. I don’t care to share what’s mine.”

Spike lifted an eyebrow. “Sounding a bit demony there, love. You’ve been hanging about with the wrong crowd.”

“Demons have no monopoly on possessiveness, my boy. Especially not when there’s something so very well worth possessing.”

A small thrill of pleasure ran up Spike’s spine at Rupert’s words. Spike never tired of being reminded that Rupert valued him. After so many long years of being unwanted, or at best playing carer for someone who was incapable of truly loving him, it was deeply comforting to be looked after, to be owned. Before he could dissolve into poncy sniffles and tears, Spike bonked the side of his head gently against Rupert’s. “So give us a reading, love.”

Rupert shuffled about a bit, sipping his tea and putting on his reading glasses. Spike heard pages rustling quietly. They’d just finished a novel the day before, a dark fantasy about an evil wizard and slaves and sailing ships, and he wondered what Rupert had chosen next.

“Let’s see,” Rupert said, clearing his throat. “ _La pens_  
 _  
é  
_  
 _  
e modern a réalisé un progrès considérable en r  
_  
 _  
é  
_  
 _  
duisant l’existant  
_  
 _  
à  
_  
 _  
la s  
_  
 _  
érie des apparitions qui le manifestent. On visait par là à supprimer un certain nombre de dualisms qui embarrassaient la philosophie et à les remplacer par le minisme du phénomène. Y at-on réussi? Il est  
_  
— Really, Spike, I had no idea you fancied Sartre.”

Spike snorted. “That pompous twit? He used to sit about in cafes, smoking and nattering on. Thought himself bloody brilliant, he did. He was more the poof’s style, not mine.”

“Then why did you choose to have me read _L’être et le néant_?”

Spike twisted about to face Rupert, although he couldn’t see his lover’s face, and frowned with concern. Rupert wasn’t going bloody senile, was he? “I didn’t choose it. How could I? Couldn’t find it on the bookshelf.”

“I wasn’t even aware that I owned this book, actually. I’d assumed you had Malcolm post it to you.”

“Mal’s off on some sort of honeymoon with his boy Ollie, remember? And I wouldn’t have him post me this shite in any case.”

“Yes, of course I remember. I just thought…well, no matter. I must have grabbed it by mistake. That’s what comes of not wearing one’s glasses, I expect.” He patted Spike’s knee. “But since we appear to be in agreement regarding Monsieur Sartre, what say I get us a different volume?”

“Ta,” Spike said.

Rupert rose from the couch and mumbled softly to himself as he chose another book. Spike was still worried about the man’s strange lapse of memory, but soon enough Rupert returned with _Live and Let Die_ , and Spike realized that Rupert had sussed out his not-so-secret bit of kink for James Bond, and the next few hours passed so pleasantly that they both forgot about the unexpected intrusion of existentialism into their lives.

 

***

 

“Civilization arrived there several decades ago, more or less. If there’s something you forget they’ll likely have it in California,” Spike said, pointedly.

“I am aware of that.”

“Then why is it taking you so bloody long to pack? You’re worse than the Slayer.”

“And you’re being terribly impertinent and I haven’t time to punish you for it.”

Spike smirked. “You can save it up for later.”

“By which time you will, no doubt, have accumulated a long list of offenses.” Rupert said those words with far too much fondness for Spike to take offense. Besides, he was probably right.

“But what’s with the packing indecision, Rupert? It’s not as if you’ve so many options to begin with: tweed, corduroy, scratchy wool. And we’re going to California, not tea with the Queen.”

Giles sighed and sank to the mattress beside him. “I know. But the last time I was in the States I was a bit, erm….”

“Homicidal?”

“Erm, yes, I suppose. I might not have quite burnt my bridges, but I fear they’re in need of significant mending.”

“And your vampire boyfriend won’t go over very well with that lot, I reckon.”

“That lot will just have to manage about my vampire boyfriend. I expect they’ll all be seething with jealousy, actually.” He gave Spike a squeeze and then stood. “Right. No point in dragging this out any longer. Ready?”

Spike was. His luggage was minimal. Most of his existence he’d traveled with little or nothing, so now he was quite satisfied with a holdall that contained a second pair of black jeans, two black tees, and a pair of leather trousers and silk shirt in case he fancied dressing up a bit. Or perhaps just giving Rupert a private show—Rupert didn’t know about the trousers because Malcolm had posted them before he and Ollie left. Rupert would take Spike’s laptop and Kindle as carry-on and Spike had his iPod.

Rupert was mostly silent during the drive and Spike could tell he was nervous. So Spike plugged his iPod into the MP3 jack and turned it on, and the two of them sang along with The Buzzcocks and The Damned. After “New Rose” ended, “California Über Alles” came on and Rupert chuckled. “You’ve been preparing for our holiday.”

“Reckoned we ought to have an appropriate soundtrack.”

After the Dead Kennedys, they listened to the Adicts sing “California” and the Clash sing “I’m So Bored with the USA” and then the Red Hot Chili Peppers and “Californication.” Spike squirmed a bit in his seat and waited for Robert Plant to begin with the first line of “Going to California.” Instead, a horrible caterwauling erupted: “ _Spirit move me every time I’m near you, whirling like a cyclone in my mind_ —”

Spike squawked and moved at vampire speed to turn the damned thing off. Rupert was nearly choking with laughter.

“Ha ha, very funny, old man. See who sleeps alone tomorrow night.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Rupert protested.

“Well, it bloody well wasn’t me loading Barry Manilow on my iPod.”

“You must have made a mistake when you were downloading songs.”

Spike snorted. “Some mistake.”

“Sometimes the software you use has glitches.”

“That’s not a glitch, it’s an abomination.”

“Why don’t you just go on to the next song?”

Spike grumbled a bit and clicked the iPod back on. And then promptly clicked it off again, but not until after Neil Diamond managed to belt out, “ _We’ve been traveling far without a home—_ ”

“Glitches,” Spike spat as if it were a curse. They drove in silence the remainder of the way.

 

***

 

Spike was going to have to return to the States the same way he’d last come to England: as a corpse. He wasn’t pleased about it. But there was simply no other way to ensure he stayed protected from the sun. Luckily, Rupert had some of the proper connections, and he and Spike were able to walk into the bowels of Heathrow under the watchful eyes of two sympathetic security guards. Rupert helped Spike into his metal coffin, handed him his iPod, and bent down to press a kiss to his lips.

“We could have sailed instead,” Rupert reminded him.

“It would have taken the better part of a week and then we’d have had to make our way across the continent. Least this way it’ll be over in half a day.”

Rupert kissed him again, this time with more heat. The man had certainly overcome his distaste for public displays of affection. “Rest well, my boy,” he said, and then closed and sealed the coffin lid.

Coffins were not comfortable accommodations. What’s more, they brought back extremely unpleasant memories: Of waking up, undead, hungry, and confused in a pauper’s cemetery in London and having to claw his way free of the earth. Of the horror that Illyria had subjected him to in her attempt to save him during the battle with Wolfram & Hart. Of being dragged back to England by Rupert before they became lovers, scared and angry and uncertain about his future. At least this time he was dressed in his usual kit instead of a poncy suit, and Rupert had tucked a soft pillow under his head and given him a pair of those chemical gel-packs to warm himself a bit at thirty thousand feet.

And he had his iPod, but it was with some trepidation that he turned the thing on. He sighed with relief when his audiobook came on obediently. It was a supernatural detective book, a silly thing with ridiculous creatures—who’d ever heard of a vampire who fed on _sex_ , for Christ’s sake?— but the bloke reading them was good with the voices and it was diverting, at least.

He was hours into the flight and lightly dozing when the story stopped in the midst of a fight between fairies and instead his earbuds started playing music. Mercifully, it wasn’t Barry Manilow. It was a lilting tune with fiddle and flute and pipes, a tune that nearly made him expect Michael bloody Flatley to begin stomping out _The Lord of the Dance_ atop his coffin.

“Bloody glitches,” Spike growled, and he crushed the iPod in one hand.

[Chapter Two](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/233758.html) 

 

 


	2. </strong> Hope

  
  
  
  
**Entry tags:**   
|   
[50kinkyways](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/50kinkyways), [angst_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/angst_bingo), [hc_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hc_bingo), [hope](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hope), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike%2Fgiles)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Hope (2/10)**_  
 **Title:**  Hope   
 **Chapter** : 2/10   
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Giles  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:**  I'm not Joss  
 **Summary** :  A sequel to [**Trust**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all) and [**Faith**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all). A trip to San Francisco brings new challenges to Spike and Giles--and some unexpected visits from their past.  
 **A/N:**  This fic is complete and I'll post one chapter per day. Thank you, as always, to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for her wonderful beta-ing! The story incorporates the following prompts: loss of vision for [](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/) , vibrator from [](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/profile)[**50kinkyways**](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/) , and physical imperfection from [](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/) .

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Hope&filter=all).

  


**  
Two  
**

 

Despite his damaged bridges, Rupert was still able to get Spike safely extricated from the coffin at SFO. Then they gathered their luggage and waited at a bar for the sun to go down. Spike was feeling out of sorts, not only over his lengthy confinement but also his treacherous iPod. He’d had to endure the final several hours of the journey in silence. But a few shots of Jack helped ease his mood, and even better was Rupert leaning across the tiny table and whispering filthy things to him in ancient Greek.

As soon as it was safe for Spike to venture near the terminal’s big windows, they emerged from the bar and made their way to the car hire booth. On a lark, Spike pushed Rupert slightly out of the way and leaned up against the counter. “I’ve a reservation for a car,” he announced to the squeaky-voiced employee on the other side. It was too bad he couldn’t see the man’s expression as he took in Spike’s scarred face and obviously sightless eyes, but he did get to hear the man stammer helplessly for a few seconds, until Rupert spoiled his fun by shouldering his way forward.

“The reservation is for me,” Rupert said.

Spike could hear the man sigh with relief. “Of course. Name, please?”

There followed the usual overlong hiring routine. Spike had no idea why it took so long to arrange a car, especially when Rupert had already reserved it online before they’d left Bath. Spike zoned out, leaning back against the counter and wondering whether it was warmer in San Francisco than in England and remembering the way the Bay smelled: salty and fishy and a bit oily, with hints of eucalyptus and fir. But his reverie was interrupted by the clipped tones of Rupert’s angry voice.

“I am quite certain that I reserved a mid-sized sedan. See? I’ve a receipt.” Paper crinkled. “Mid-sized sedan, such as a Pontiac G6 or similar. Eighty dollars a day.”

More paper rustling, no doubt as the bloke examined Rupert’s receipt. Then there was the clicking of a keyboard. “Are you sure you didn’t change the reservation, sir?”

“Quite.”

“But the thing is, sir, the system is showing that you reserved one of our premium vehicles.”

“The system is wrong,” Rupert replied, letting his contempt for computers show.

Rupert was probably making one of his more Rippery faces because the car hire bloke squeaked again. “Well, but see, the thing is, we’re completely out of mid-sized. We have a Hyundai Accent—”

Rupert snorted dismissively.

The bloke typed frantically at his computer. Then, after a long pause, he said, “I’ll tell you what, sir. Because you _do_ have the receipt, we can let you have the premium vehicle at the eighty dollar rate. That’s half the usual.”

Rupert tsked and grumbled but he did fancy a bargain, so it was no large surprise to Spike when he finally signed the paperwork and the employee handed over the keys. They had to board a shuttle bus to get to the car park, and as the little bus swerved about, they leaned tiredly against one another. Finally, the bus came to a halt and they disembarked.

“That’s your car over there, sir,” the driver said. “The graphite one.”

Rupert led the way but stopped when they got to the car. “I don’t know how we’ll fit our luggage in there,” he said.

“Should have packed light, like me.” Spike hefted his carry-all as evidence. “What did they give us?”

“A sports car. Quite nice, I expect, but not very practical.”

“Something Moghon would have fancied?” Spike asked, because when Rupert had been possessed he’d temporarily abandoned his Mini in favor of a Jaguar.

“Perhaps. It’s a Viper.”

Spike had been reaching toward where he reckoned the passenger door might be, but he froze. “A what?”

“A Dodge Viper. Have you something against Chrysler products?”

“No. It’s only…Peaches had a Viper. Classic overcompensation, yeah? I never fancied it much myself but I used to nick it now and then, just because it irritated him.”

“Well, I take it you can survive a few days as a passenger in one. Otherwise we’re going to have to take the shuttle back to the terminal, and I shall have to argue with that man again, and—”

“No, it’s fine. I’m knackered. Let’s just get out of here.”

And so with considerable difficulty, they managed to stuff themselves and their baggage into the Viper.

 

***

 

Rupert had reserved a room at the Argonaut. It was over on Fisherman’s Wharf, which was a bit too touristy for their tastes—although it was a lovely place to hunt, back in Spike’s Big Bad days—but it was a nice hotel and it was in a former warehouse, which meant there were very few windows. Their room had no window at all, but it did have a big, comfortable bed and a slightly oversized bathtub, and that was good enough for Spike.

The bathtub must have caught Rupert’s eye as well. “Fancy a soak?” he asked as soon as Spike finished his quick tactile tour of the room. “I’ve arranged for a blood delivery, but it won’t be here for nearly two hours.”

“You should eat something, too.”

“I’ll order something in.” He pressed his body close behind Spike’s and murmured in his ear. “You must be sore after having been crammed in that box for so long. Let me relax your muscles.”

Spike grinned happily. “I like the sound of that.” And he did. Rupert was caring for him, caring about him, and Spike could never have too much of that.

Spike stripped off his clothing and set it on a chair. He’d always been fairly tidy anyway, but blindness forced him to be especially careful. He’d once spent twenty minutes groping angrily about for a missing boot, only to trip over the boot and come close to falling on his face. Not something he wished to repeat.

He could feel the weight of Rupert’s gaze on him as he undressed, and as soon as Spike was bare, Rupert stepped forward and gathered Spike in his arms. The cotton of his shirt and trousers brushed against Spike’s skin and he cupped Spike’s buttocks in his palms. Almost instantly, Spike was achingly hard. He flexed his hips, pressing his cock against Rupert’s hip.

“Ah!” Rupert said, pushing him gently away. “Bath first.”

Spike might have complained, except he loved it when Rupert bathed him. So he padded along beside his human, feeling the carpet under his feet give way to cool tile, and he leaned up against the vanity, waiting for Rupert to finish fiddling with the faucet and for the tub to fill. “In you go,” Rupert said, and he gave Spike a hand to help him over the high side of the bathtub. Not necessary, of course, but welcome.

Spike sighed happily as he sank into the hot water. “’S lovely,” he said. “We should get one like this. Or perhaps one with jets.”

“If we installed a bathtub with jets I’d never get you out again. You’d spend your existence wrinkled as a prune and my hot water bill would be horrifying.”

“Mmm. But I’d be all warm and…melty. Pliant.”

Rupert kissed Spike’s forehead. “You’re pliant anyway, my boy.”

The hotel soap was bumpy and smelled faintly of almonds. It was especially lathery as well, and Rupert did a good job scrubbing Spike’s arms with it, and his chest and stomach, and then his legs. In fact, that soap and Rupert’s hands wandered over nearly every inch of Spike’s body except the bits where Spike most wanted them, but he knew better than to do more than moan and spread his thighs as widely as the tub permitted. Any demanding or begging and Rupert would extend the torture indefinitely.

Sometimes the demon in Spike resented the way he gave himself over like that, and to a mere human. But Spike—and William before him—had never really been one for self-control. He’d worn his emotions on his sleeve, whether that sleeve be wool or leather, and he’d acted on his impulses more often than not. But the chip had forced him to curb his impulses, to rein in his need to hunt and kill, and the soul had bound him even more. And then blindness had made him consider every move before he made it, until sometimes he felt like an explosive device, and the only thing keeping him from going off was his own fragile, brittle self-discipline. It was like wrapping nitroglycerin in eggshells and it was bloody _difficult_. So when he was with Rupert and he could hand over control of himself, somehow that was freeing. He’d let Rupert make the choices, let Rupert drive, and Spike could finally relax, because he trusted his lover. In some ways more than he trusted himself. When playtime was over and Spike was back in charge of himself, he’d feel refreshed, renewed. Strengthened.

Besides, he’d learned lately that delayed gratification was so much sweeter.

So Spike lay back passively in the tub and allowed Rupert to wash him and tease him, and when Rupert finally curled a soapy hand around Spike’s neglected cock, Spike squeezed his eyes tight and moaned deep in his throat and then climaxed with enough intensity that for a moment his blind eyes saw: sparkles and fairy lights and fireworks all at once.

Rupert massaged Spike’s shoulder with one hand and stroked the back of his neck with the other, calming him, slowly bringing him back to reality.

“Relaxed?” Rupert asked when Spike let out a long, noisy breath.

“Hmm,” Spike hummed in reply and Rupert chuckled fondly.

Although Spike was perfectly capable of drying himself, Rupert did it for him, rubbing the bleach-scented towel over his torso and limbs, tousling his hair. Then he led Spike to the bed and tucked him in and told him to rest while they waited for their dinner.

Spike fell asleep at once.

 

***

 

“So what fool’s errand are you on this time?” Spike asked. His stomach was pleasantly full and Rupert was seated next to him in bed, smelling of clam chowder and sourdough bread.

“It’s an important errand.”

“Yeah, yeah. Always is.” Spike squashed against Rupert’s side, feeling the warmth seep into him.

“A few years ago, hikers in Joshua Tree National Park found an object amongst some boulders. Quite an ancient object, a stone with inscribed symbols, and at first it was assumed it must be Native American. Reasonable assumption, as there were petroglyphs nearby.”

“But it wasn’t the Indians’.”

“No. The stone was sent to UC Berkeley for analysis by some eminent anthropologists, who quickly concluded that they had no idea at all who’d made it. The object caused quite a stir in the academic journals and there were claims it was some sort of hoax.”

“Fascinating,” Spike said, reaching up to play with Rupert’s chest hair. “Nothing gets my knickers wetter than squabbles in the ivory tower.”

“You’re not wearing any knickers,” Rupert said, and lightly swatted Spike’s rump. “You asked for the tale, now be quiet while I tell it. It took some time, but eventually word of the discovery made its way to the Council.”

“Nosy wankers.”

“Perhaps so, but we must be vigilant, or else—”

“Apocalypse now. I know.”

Rupert mussed Spike’s already wild hair. “Thus far, we’ve only seen photos of the object, but we believe it may be quite old indeed. In fact, we believe it may have originated with the Old Ones.”

That got Spike’s attention. “The gods?”

“That’s what they liked to be called, yes. They were purebred demons, not the hybrids we have today. No offense.”

“Like Illyria.”

“Yes.”

Spike sat up. “Rupert, these gods are bad news. They’re ruthless and bloody strong. Even in a human shell, Blue could trounce me without batting an eyelash. They’ve no human emotions or sensibilities at all. You saw what Blue did to me and she meant to rescue me.”

“I know, Spike. But if you’re trying to convince me not to get involved, you might as well save your breath. Not that you need your breath anyway. As dangerous as the Old Ones were, having one of their artifacts just sitting about a university—that’s simply asking for disaster.”

“Fine. But someone else can sort this mess.”

“Someone else cannot. Nobody knows more about the Old Ones than I.”

“Really? I hadn’t realized you were such an expert.”

“I wasn’t. But after I learned what had happened to you, well, I began doing some research. I wanted to make sure you were safe, my boy.”

“Don’t try to protect me at the cost of your own safety,” Spike replied angrily.

“Spike, I am a Watcher. It’s what I do. I can’t escape it any more than you can escape being a vampire or Buffy can escape being a Slayer. It’s a calling, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn there was something supernatural involved, perhaps a touch of demon somewhere in my distant ancestry. God knows I bloody well tried not to be a Watcher, but I _can’t_ Spike. And part of that means I will be in danger. Do you honestly expect I’d be satisfied spending the rest of my days puttering about the garden or…or collecting stamps?”

“I’d hoped you’d be satisfied with me,” Spike answered quietly.

“And I am. I truly am. But as tempting as it sounds, neither of us is capable of spending the rest of our existence in bed.”

“Could try,” Spike said slightly sullenly, mostly because he knew Rupert was right. He reached forward and grabbed Rupert’s shoulder. “But what if this is it, love? What if _this_ is the adventure that ends you?”

“Spike, I am a mortal man. A mortal man who is…not so young any longer. I will die.” He cupped one side of Spike’s face, stroking his cheek with his thumb. “I’m not exactly eager for that event to happen, but I don’t fear it either. And I’d rather die in the pursuit of my duties than to hang about for decades drooling and finally expiring from…I don’t know. Heart disease. A stroke. My father died of pancreatic cancer. Surely you understand: you’ve opted for a blaze of glory yourself. More than once.”

Spike sighed because he did understand, and he shifted about so his head was cradled by Rupert’s shoulder. “Promise me you won’t just rush in like an idiot. Keep me at your side. I know I can’t bloody see, but—”

“But that didn’t stop you from saving me. Twice. I promise: I shall keep you very firmly at my side. When you’re not underneath me, that is. Or on top.”

“Dirty old man with a one-track mind.”

Rupert tickled him.

  
[Chapter Three](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/234252.html)

 

 

  



	3. </strong> Hope

  
  
  
  
**Entry tags:**   
|   
[50kinkyways](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/50kinkyways), [angst_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/angst_bingo), [hc_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hc_bingo), [hope](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hope), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike%2Fgiles)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Hope (3/10)**_  
 **Title:**  Hope   
 **Chapter** : 3/10   
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Giles  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:**  I'm not Joss  
 **Summary** :  A sequel to [**Trust**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all) and [**Faith**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all). A trip to San Francisco brings new challenges to Spike and Giles--and some unexpected visits from their past.  
 **A/N:**  This fic is complete and I'll post one chapter per day. Thank you, as always, to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for her wonderful beta-ing! The story incorporates the following prompts: loss of vision for [](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/) , vibrator from [](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/profile)[**50kinkyways**](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/) , and physical imperfection from [](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/) .

Previous chapters [**here**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Hope&filter=all).  
  


 **  
Three  
**

 

Berkeley had been lovely in the '60s, with girls and boys willing to shag a stranger, and their blood fizzing with all sorts of interesting chemicals. Dru had fancied the clothing, walking about with leather fringes and floating skirts and wild colors, but for Spike it had been about the music, the howling guitars and pounding drums. He’d returned briefly to Berkeley later, after Dru was cured and before they left for South America, and he’d found the city settled into middle age, with Volvos and posh restaurants and Crate & Barrels. Not as much fun.

But he didn’t mind walking across campus with Rupert that evening, hearing a dozen conversations as they passed groups of students, sniffing at the faint odor of marijuana drifting on the breeze. Spike had remembered that there had been a good Indian restaurant nearby and Rupert had promised that after their business was completed they’d see if it was still there.

Spike didn’t know how Rupert had convinced the professor to meet them this late, but then the man could be bloody persuasive when he put his mind to it.

“You reckon you’d have ended up in a place like this, Rupert? If it weren’t for the Watcher bit, I mean.”

“Perhaps. My grandfather lectured at Cambridge, actually. How about you? If you hadn’t been turned, where would you have ended up?”

“Dunno. My father was a banker, but that would have driven me ‘round the bend in no time. All those columns of figures—ugh. His life was as soulless as mine ever was, in some ways.”

“You wanted to be a poet,” Rupert said. Spike didn’t detect any teasing in his tone.

“Yeah, but I was crap at it. Knew it even then, really. I read at Cambridge myself, you know. Perhaps I’d have lectured there as well.”

“Somehow I have trouble picturing you being happy amongst lecture halls and dusty old books.”

Spike shrugged. “Dunno what else I’d have done. Was pretty useless, really.”

“Well, then it’s lucky you met Dru, because you’re quite good at being a vampire.”

Spike laughed harshly. “No, mate, I’m really not. What kind of vampire spends more time cosseting his barmy sire than killing prey? What kind of vampire gets caught by sodding humans and has a piece of plastic shoved in his cranium? What kind of vampire falls in love with a Slayer and then fights for his bloody soul?”

“A special one. The same sort who saves the world time and again and is fiercely loyal to those he loves. Who is grievously injured and yet still survives and struggles and _wins_ , Spike. A vampire who earns the respect and love of a Watcher.”

Rupert’s words warmed Spike even if he didn’t completely believe them. In any case, he let the conversation drop as they climbed four cement stairs and entered a long, echoing corridor that smelled of chalk and cleaning fluids. Rupert seemed to know where he was going, because he led them confidently up a flight of steps, down another hall, and around a corner. Then he stopped and knocked loudly on a wooden door.

The door creaked when it opened. “Professor Miller? I’m Rupert Giles and this is William Pratt.”

“Hi,” a woman replied. “Come on in.”

They seemed to be in a laboratory of some kind. It was quite large and Rupert had to steer Spike around several long tables. Spike could smell old, dry bones and crumbling stone.

“Please, have a seat,” the professor said.

Rupert pulled out a tall stool for Spike and then sat beside him. “Thank you for agreeing to meet us so late, Professor Miller.”

“It’s Judy, and no problem. I’m usually stuck here pretty late anyway.” She laughed. “I don’t have tenure yet. So, you guys are interested in the mystery rock?”

“We are.”

The woman rustled about in a drawer for a moment. “Well, here it is.”

A familiar scent tickled at Spike’s nostrils and he nearly got up and ran away. It was the same smell that had surrounded him in that other-dimensional space where Illyria had dragged him. With a great deal of difficulty, Spike held his ground and kept his breathing even, but even so Rupert must have sensed his distress because he clapped Spike on the back and then kept his hand there, solid and comforting between Spike’s shoulder blades. “What can you tell us about it?” Rupert asked.

“The Serranos didn’t make it, that’s for sure. And neither did the Chemehuevi or the Cahuilla or Mojave. It doesn’t look remotely like anything any of us have seen before. So either it was brought there at some point, or else there was another group of people living there that we’ve never heard of before.”

“Did the natives trade extensively?”

“Yeah, but with other tribes in the Southwest. This thing didn’t come from any known group in the Americas. Plus, I ran it by a geology pal of mine, and he says this looks like it’s made from the same quartz monzonite that’s all over the park. We can’t know for sure without some chemical analysis though, and we haven’t done that yet.”

“I see. Have you any idea what its purpose is?”

“Not really. Except, you know, it kinda reminds me of the Rosetta Stone. Look how these same shapes and symbols repeat themselves.”

“Like hieroglyphs.”

“Exactly. And there’s this whole set of squiggles up here, but down here the squiggles are all different. So maybe it’s a message in a couple of different languages. But I don’t know; that’s just a wild guess. Some of my colleagues aren’t even convinced this thing’s for real.”

“But you are?”

She paused for a moment. “Yeah, I am. Look, I’m not an expert on forgeries or anything, and it’s pretty much impossible to tell whether something’s genuine when you don’t have a clue where it’s supposed to be from anyhow. But there’s something about this rock…it _feels_ real, you know?” She laughed again. “Okay, not very scientific there.”

“You should trust your instincts,” Spike said, hoping that if he hadn’t already, Rupert would clue in that this thing was no fake.

Rupert cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I take some photos and do some measurements?”

“Be my guest.”

Spike remained seated while Rupert stood and clicked away with a camera.

“What’s your field, William?” Judy asked Spike, no doubt wondering how a blind bloke managed to study anything.

“’T’s Spike, actually. And, erm, I’m a good hand with languages. Know some history as well. But this time I’m mostly along for the holiday.”

“Have you spent much time in the US before?”

“Lived here for…for a time. Miss it a bit now and then.”

“Well, I hope you have some time for touristy stuff too, and not just boring old chunks of rock.”

“Ta.”

They made a bit of small talk after that, mostly about London and about her hometown of Boise, while Rupert moved about the table, muttering to himself and scratching notes on a tablet of paper. Finally he must have finished, because he said, “Thank you again, Judy.”

“Sure. Do you know what it is?”

“I’ve some ideas, but they’re very preliminary. I’ll take my notes and photos and do some research, and I’ll let you know what I find.”

“Sounds good. Hey, did anyone talk to you about getting temporary privileges in the library?”

“No, but that would be lovely if it could be arranged.”

“I’ll have our department secretary do the paperwork in the morning. If you could just give me a card or something so we can contact you?”

“Of course.”

The professor walked them both to the door. “I teach Tuesday nights, so if you want to come have another peek, just let me know.”

“Thank you. You’ve been very kind,” Rupert said.

There was a bit of awkwardness, probably as the woman decided whether hand-shaking was appropriate and how one went about that with a blind man. Spike solved the dilemma by sticking his right palm out. “Have a good evening, Doc,” he said.

She had a firm handshake. “You too. Enjoy your vacation.”

 

***

 

Spike waited long enough for their waiter to leave a menu and walk away before he announced, “It’s theirs. The Old Ones.”

“How could you tell?”

“Smells of them.”

“Oh.” There was a brief pause. “It must have been unpleasant for you, reliving those memories.”

Spike didn’t tell Rupert that he relived those memories often in his sleep. Probably Rupert already knew, because Spike would wake up from those nightmares to find himself held tightly in Rupert’s arms, with Rupert crooning softly in his ear. “’S all right,” he said gruffly. “You know what the whatsit does?”

“I’m afraid not. I shall need to conduct—”

“More research. Naturally.”

“Naturally. Do you care for some food, Spike?”

“Yeah. They used to have some brilliant samosas here, and the lamb rogan josh was good.”

“I must admit, I’m trying to picture you and Drusilla sitting here for a meal, and I’m having a great deal of difficulty with it.”

Spike chuckled. “She had to be in the proper mood. Every now and then she’d become convinced that she was on speaking terms with Shiva—in his Destroyer form, I expect—and I’d tell her this was a good place for them to have a natter. The staff never seemed to mind the daft bint talking to herself so long as I paid the bill. We never killed any of them, either. Didn’t seem right, when they’d served us such lovely curries.”

Rupert laughed and the waiter came and took their order. And perhaps the discussion about Dru had made Spike a bit nostalgic, because as they ate he told some more old tales of his adventures—he avoided some of the gorier bits—and Rupert appeared to genuinely enjoy them.

 

***

 

After they’d crossed back over the Bay, they went for a walk, strolling arm in arm along the wharf, listening to the waves lap against the piers and, far away, the sea lions bark at each other. It was foggy and the moisture condensed on their clothes and hair; a fat droplet slid down Spike’s forehead and off the tip of his nose.

“Feels like London,” Spike said. “Like it used to when I was alive. I was always damp.”

“Central heat was an excellent invention.”

They stopped and leaned against a railing, facing out toward Alcatraz, although tonight neither of them could see it. They didn't speak for a long time, but then Spike felt an odd tickling on the back of his neck. “Love,” he whispered. “Is someone watching us?”

“There’s a homeless man camped in the doorway across the street, but I believe he’s asleep. I can’t see anyone else.”

Spike shrugged his shoulders as if to shake off the feeling. “I’ve had this odd sense for a day or two now…I expect it’s discomfort over being in a new place, not being able to picture the topography of it in my head.”

“Stirring up those memories of Illyria can’t have helped.”

“’M sorry I’m so sodding fragile.”

“You’re not fragile, my boy.” Rupert slung an arm around him. “Do you want to head inside or do you fancy more of a walk?”

Spike thought for a moment. “How about we find an open shop and buy some whiskey, yeah? Those bloody minibar bottles won’t last me long.”

“All right.”

They walked uphill until Rupert spied a liquor store and they went inside. It was almost claustrophobically warm and Spike was loath to move too much, lest he knock over stacks of bottles. Rupert led him to the counter with a gentle grip on Spike’s elbow. “Yes?” said the bloke who worked there. He sounded slightly wary, but then Spike could hardly blame him.

“Fifth of Jack. Ah, make it two. Rupert, anything for you?”

“Yes. Glenmorangie.”

The bloke clinked bottles about for a moment. “Eighty-five thirty-seven,” he said.

Rupert took out his MasterCard. Spike had some money of his own—his wages from the Council for his occasional consulting work—but Rupert was well enough set and he preferred that Spike save most of his dosh. Spike didn’t mind, although he reckoned that some shop employees, like this one, must be thinking that the older Englishman had got a poor deal with his choice of rent boys.

Spike carried the bottles back to the Argonaut, enjoying their clink inside the paper sack. The doorman wished them a good evening and held the door open, and the girl at the reception desk called out a cheery hello as they walked by. Up in their room, Rupert announced that he was going to take a shower.

“Fancy some company?” Spike asked.

“No, the stall’s not big enough. I’ll be out shortly.”

“Right, but I’m going to start in on the Jack,” Spike said, because he could still almost smell the Old Ones.

Rupert kissed the side of his head. “You do that.”

But the idea of drinking alone in silence was a bit depressing, so Spike found the remote and took it to the small round table, along with the bag of booze. He sat down and clicked on the telly, but _Das Boot_ was on so he changed the channel, only to find himself listening to Christopher Lee prancing about in—Spike was fairly certain— _Dracula Has Risen from the Grave_. “Bloody hell,” Spike swore and turned the telly off again.

He pulled one of the familiar square bottles out of the paper bag and untwisted the top. For a moment he considered finding a glass, but then decided not to. No use pretending to be cultured. He took a big swig.

And then promptly spat it back out.

That was _not_ Jack Daniels.

For a moment, he thought that perhaps he’d accidentally opened Rupert’s Glenmorangie instead. But no, that stuff came in a round bottle, and besides, he recognized the taste in his mouth. Bushmills, the 21-year-old sort. He ought to know it well—he used to nick Angel’s bottles all the time.

With a puzzled frown, Spike took another sip, slower this time. No question about it—Bushmills. He felt at the bottle that was still open in front of him, but it was square, just as he’d thought. Besides, it wasn’t likely that the clerk would have mistakenly given them Bushmills instead of Jack—the Irish stuff cost better than a hundred dollars a bottle.

“Fuck,” he said out loud.

He reached into the bag and pulled out the other bottle of Jack. He twisted the top off it as well. “Fuck,” he repeated, because it tasted like Bushmills again.

So then he yanked out the third bottle, Rupert’s Glenmorangie, and tried that as well. Bushmills.

“Hey! Leave me my own whiskey, at least,” Rupert said, bringing the scent of soap and steam with him from the bathroom.

Spike stood on shaky legs and held out one of the square bottles. “Taste this, pet.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Just taste it.”

Rupert took the bottle and Spike heard him swallow. “That is _not_ Kentucky bourbon,” Rupert said. His voice was thick with confusion.

“Try the others.”

Rupert did, taking a swig from each. “Good Lord, Spike. What’s happened?”

“I don’t know. But that’s 21-year-old Irish whiskey we’re tasting.”

“But…how?”

“I don’t know.” Spike sat down heavily.

The bottles clattered a bit as Rupert examined them. “The labels look perfectly normal. Were the seals intact?”

“Until I broke them, yeah.”

“I…I don’t understand.”

“Rupert…this was Angel’s drink. And the music on my iPod yesterday, and the bloody hired car—”

“And Sartre.”

“Yeah. Him, too. And…fuck, the telly. Whilst you were in the shower, it was all about German submarines and vampires.”

“Somebody’s trying to send us a message about Angel.”

Spike nodded. “But who? And why?”

“Are you quite certain he was dusted in battle?”

“Saw it myself—could still see then. Was the last thing I saw, almost. And I _tasted_ him, love. Tasted his ashes on my tongue.”

Rupert was silent for a while, apart from his bare feet padding on the carpet as he paced. Finally he stopped. “We won’t find any answers tonight, I’ll wager. I propose we enjoy some of Angel’s whiskey and sort this tomorrow.”

Spike reached for the nearest bottle. “Excellent scheme, love.”

  
[Chapter Four](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/234695.html)

 

 

  



	4. </strong> Hope

  
  
  
  
**Entry tags:**   
|   
[50kinkyways](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/50kinkyways), [angst_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/angst_bingo), [hc_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hc_bingo), [hope](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hope), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike%2Fgiles)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Hope (4/10)**_  
 **Title:**  Hope   
 **Chapter** : 4/10   
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Giles  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:**  I'm not Joss  
 **Summary** :  A sequel to [**Trust**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all) and [**Faith**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all). A trip to San Francisco brings new challenges to Spike and Giles--and some unexpected visits from their past.  
 **A/N:**  This fic is complete and I'll post one chapter per day. Thank you, as always, to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for her wonderful beta-ing! The story incorporates the following prompts: loss of vision for [](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/) , vibrator from [](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/profile)[**50kinkyways**](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/) , and physical imperfection from [](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/) .

Previous chapters [**here**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Hope&filter=all).

 **  
Four  
**

 

When Spike woke up in the middle of the afternoon, Rupert was sitting at the table, clicking away at the laptop. Spike gave him a quick snog and went into the bathroom, where he splashed some water on his face and ran a comb through his curls. But when he squeezed some of his hair gel into his palm, the consistency was wrong—it was thicker and stickier than normal—and it smelled wrong. It smelled, in fact, like the poncy shite Angel used.

He hadn’t minded the booze substitution, but this was going too far. He stomped out into the main room. “What have you found?” he demanded.

“Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”

Spike held up the plastic bottle. “It’s been switched for the poof’s.”

Rupert made a sound that was clearly an attempt to swallow laughter. “That’s tragic, Spike. Why don’t you get dressed and eat and then we can discuss this?”

Grumbling to himself, Spike pulled on his clothing—at least _that_ was still his own—and yanked a packet of blood from the tiny fridge. He was going to have to drink it cold, which didn’t improve his mood at all. But when he emptied the packet into a mug and took a sip, he once again spat the liquid everywhere.

“Spike! That’s going to be the devil to clean up.”

“ _Pig_ ’s blood. It’s bloody…pig’s blood!”

“My source brought us blood from the hospital and it came in a packet clearly labeled human.”

“I can sodding well tell human from pig!” Spike wanted to stomp his foot like a child having a tantrum. “We get it!” he yelled at whatever was listening. “Message from beyond about Peaches. Bloody give us the message already and stop messing about with my things!”

Mildly, Rupert said, “I doubt having a conniption is going to help.”

“ _Pig’s_ blood, Rupert. Tastes like shite even when it’s warm.”

“I’ll ring for another delivery.”

Spike sighed and sat down opposite him. In a considerably calmer voice, he said, “Have you found anything?”

“Not really. At this point I’ve only suppositions.”

“Such as?”

“Well, being dead has generally not been all that fatal for you. Perhaps the same is true for Angel. Perhaps he’s trapped somewhere, like you when you were a ghost….”

“Or when I was in that place Blue took me,” Spike finished grimly. “Rupert, he’s been to hell before, but that place—”

“And I was thinking about hell as well.”

“You don’t reckon he earned a spot somewhere friendlier?”

“I wouldn’t presume to say. I’m hardly an expert on salvation.” He pushed his chair back and Spike heard him begin to pace again. Sometimes the man seemed to think better in motion. “The battle was with Wolfram & Hart. What if they’ve taken him to one of their customized hells? They’ve done that before, have they not? With that McDonald fellow?”

Spike thought about that. “Well, that would be better than Blue’s place, anyhow. But then who’s responsible for the haunting shite? And why?”

“I don’t know.”

Spike felt an odd twisting in his belly. It had nearly destroyed him to see his grandsire dusted, but at least then Spike had the comforting thought of Angel being somewhere…at peace. Now, though, it seemed as if that had been a false solace.

Rupert noticed his distress. He walked over and rested a hand on Spike’s shoulder. “You care about him, don’t you?”

“That tosser?” Spike said, trying to twist away.

But Rupert wouldn’t let him. “I don’t know why you insist on believing you can hide your feelings. Every one of them is written across your face, plain as day.”

“Read this, then,” Spike growled.

But Rupert tousled his hair as if Spike were a sulky schoolboy. “We’ll sort this, Spike.”

 

***

 

With two pressing problems to research, Rupert decided he needed to visit a library. Not in Berkeley; he needed rather more esoteric and specific books than the university could provide. But there was a specialty library he knew of up in San Rafael, some sort of private Wiccan sanctuary, and he thought he might find some answers there. So he rang for more blood and settled Spike in bed with the Kindle _Macbeth_ , and he left.

Spike listened to Shakespeare for a while. But he got restless somewhere through Act II and switched off the Kindle and began his own bout of pacing. That did nothing but make him feel like a caged animal, so he sat at the table with his freshly delivered human blood and turned on his laptop.

Rupert had installed some software for him that would read the computer screen out loud. He didn’t really fancy the synthesized speech, but it was better than nothing. Willow had emailed him recently to say she was working on some software, or perhaps a spell—he wasn’t certain which; perhaps a combination—that would permit him to change the voice to his own or Rupert’s or anyone else he chose. “Even Xander’s,” she’d giggled, and he’d shuddered, thinking of Donut Boy’s voice babbling on as Spike tried to browse the Internet. In any case, for now he was stuck with a mechanical voice.

After a few moments of playing about, he decided that some basic research wouldn’t be amiss, and he surfed over to Wikipedia. “  
 _  
Many-worlds  
_  
 _  
is a postulate of quantum mechanics that asserts the objective reality of the universal wavefunction, but denies the reality of wavefunction collapse, which implies that all possible alternative histories and futures are real….”  
_  
The computer droned on and Spike realized he’d stopped listening and was instead daydreaming about the previous week, when Rupert had persuaded him to go horseback riding. Spike had refused at first—he’d never much trusted the beasts even before automobiles were invented—but Rupert had insisted. Spike had ridden Mage while Rupert led them on Atella, and once he’d recovered from his initial discomfort, Spike had quite enjoyed the feeling of freedom, of moving without worrying about crashing into things. Besides, Rupert had taken them to a secluded little spot and then buggered Spike senseless atop soft, dewy grass.

None of which had the least bearing on their current problems, Spike reminded himself. He tried to focus again on the computer, but the words might as well have been in Urdu for all the sense they made, and he impatiently clicked on the stop button. Right then. Wikipedia wasn’t useful in solving their problem—no surprise there. What might help?

When nothing came to mind, he decided to read his email instead. There were only a few messages. One from Mal, saying he and Ollie were having a brilliant time in the Canary Islands. One from a Nigerian prince, informing him that the prince was willing to share his fortune of 27 million dollars if only Spike would be so kind as to send his bank account information. One from Buffy, wondering if he and Rupert wanted to come visit Scotland sometime soon and help her track down that werewolf she’d been hearing now and again. One promising to enlarge his penis and another telling him he could earn an degree in criminal justice.

Spike was mentally drafting a reply to Buffy when the computer made an odd, staticky sound for a few seconds. Then the static cleared and Spike was reaching for the keypad when the computer spoke again. “William,” it said.

Spike jumped up and backwards, knocking over his chair, because it wasn’t the usual robot-voice that had said his name. It was Angel’s. “Liam?” Spike replied, more than a bit warily.

“Yes,” came the reply. It was tinny and faint, as if it were very far away. It reminded Spike a bit of the way phone conversations sounded back in the early days.

“Where…where are you?” Spike felt more than a bit barmy for talking out loud to his computer, even if it talked back.

“Here. Not here.”

“A bit cryptic there, mate.”

“In between.”

“Never played twenty questions with a ghost before.”

“Will….” Angel had called him that only a few times, and only in moments of deep emotion. Or while they were shagging.

“Do you need rescuing, Liam?”

“Yes.”

“Right. How?”

“Can’t…please…please….” And then Angel’s voice faded out like a radio losing reception.

“Liam? Angel?” Spike called, but there was no response. “Bugger,” he said, still out loud. “That wasn’t very helpful.”

 

***

 

So when Rupert returned they both had news to share. But Spike had had enough of being cooped up in a room by then and it was after dark, so they decided they could share over dinner. “There’s a good Vietnamese place in the Ferry Building if you don’t mind a bit of a walk,” Rupert said.

“A walk would be brilliant, actually.”

So they strolled down the wharf, passing the tourists who were scurrying here and there. Up ahead there was a roar and a scream, and Spike tensed, ready to fight, but Rupert laughed and patted his arm. “It’s quite all right. It’s only the Bushman.”

“The what?”

“The Bushman. He hides behind branches and jumps out to frighten people. He makes a living off it, I expect.”

Spike heard the clunk of change as Rupert dropped some coins in the Bushman’s collecting can. Spike shook his head. “People paying for being scared. Should have tried that myself, back in my chipped days. Wouldn’t have had to rely on you lot for blood money.”

“I’m sure you would have been very good at it,” Rupert said, deliberately patronizing, and Spike poked him in the side.

“Git.”

“Tsk. There’s another one, my boy.”

Spike’s cock woke up a bit at Rupert’s tone. Spike silently told it to go back to sleep.

The Ferry Building was crowded with evening commuters and they made an echoing din. Even with Rupert’s arm firmly through his, Spike kept colliding with people. The presence of so much humanity made him feel threatened and defensive, but Rupert kept close until they made their way to the restaurant and were seated at a table in a quiet corner.

“There’s a gorgeous view of the Bay from here,” Rupert said.

“Afraid that’s lost on me, mate.”

“I can see across the bridge to Oakland. Where I found you two years ago.”

Spike smiled. “I remember.”

“Have you ever given thought to why Illyria left you there?”

“Not really. I reckoned she wanted me well clear of LA, in case the lawyer wankers were still about. Or perhaps it was just random. Never could suss out her way of thinking.”

“I don’t think it was random. I think it might be related to the proximity of the stone.”

Spike was about to demand an explanation, but then the waitress came by with tea and the bottle of Pinot Gris Rupert had ordered, and they told her to bring them shrimp spring rolls and papaya salad and shaking beef and claypot chicken. For no good reason, Spike was very much in the mood for human food.

But as soon as the waitress was gone, Spike said, “Explain.”

“My findings are only preliminary.” There was the quiet glug of liquid being poured and Rupert pushed a wine glass against Spike’s hand. “But I’ve identified one of the languages on the stone as Kalalkh-than.”

“Am I meant to recognize that?” Spike sipped at his wine. It was good.

“No, it’s quite obscure, really. A sort of bastard Primordial Sanskrit. I’d heard of it before, briefly, but never seen it. It was spoken near the end of the reign of the Old Ones.”

“Lovely. And the other language?”

“Don’t know. I’ve never seen it and I haven’t yet found anything similar. But clearly the stone has something to do with the Old Ones, and it must be more than a coincidence that Illyria left you only a few miles from where the stone was stored at the university.”

Spike drank some more wine, mulling this over. He didn’t hold much in coincidences either. Finally, he sighed. “I reckon it’s too much to hope that the bloody rock is just an ancient receipt for takeaway pizza.”

Rupert laughed softly. But his voice was serious when he took Spike’s free hand in his and said, “I know this is difficult for you. If you want…we can return to England. Let someone else sort this business.”

“But you’ve already said nobody was as much an expert as you.”

“I learned. So can they.”

A voice inside Spike’s head—one that sounded like William on a bad day—urged him to take Rupert’s offer. They could leave this mess to someone else and go hunt for werewolves in Scotland. But he shook his head. “No. I’ll manage. One of those other nobs is as likely to bollocks it up as anything. Besides, we’ve Angel to sort as well. He spoke to me today.”

“What?!”

“Through my computer.”

“Well, what did he say?”

“Not much. Contrary old bastard, as difficult as ever.” Spike repeated his short conversation with his grandsire.

When Spike was finished, Rupert exhaled loudly. “That’s not as enlightening as I’d hoped.”

“Stupid sod manages to ruin my playlist but he can’t spit out a proper explanation.”

The waitress brought their food and Spike dug savagely into his chicken. They were both silent for a while, chewing and swallowing.

Rupert spoke next. “It appears both matters shall require further investigation.”

“What do you propose?”

“Malcolm’s due back tomorrow, is he not?”

Spike thought a moment. “Yeah.”

“Then I’ll ring him and see if he can find anything that may be of assistance with Angel. His research skills have improved considerably of late.”

Spike snorted. “They’d nowhere to go but up.”

“In the meantime, I’ll need more time in San Rafael. And a closer look at the stone.”

Something in the tone of Rupert’s voice as he said those last words made Spike pause in his attack on the quaking beef. “And what did you have in mind, Rupert Giles?”

In an accent that was considerably more down-market than his usual—a distinctly Ripperish accent, in fact—Rupert replied. “I was thinking perhaps a bit of burglary.”

[Chapter Five](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/234768.html)

 

 

  



	5. </strong> Hope

  
  
  
  
**Entry tags:**   
|   
[50kinkyways](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/50kinkyways), [angst_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/angst_bingo), [hc_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hc_bingo), [hope](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hope), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike%2Fgiles)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Hope (5/10)**_  
 **Title:**  Hope   
 **Chapter** : 5/10   
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Giles  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:**  I'm not Joss  
 **Summary** :  A sequel to [**Trust**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all) and [**Faith**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all). A trip to San Francisco brings new challenges to Spike and Giles--and some unexpected visits from their past.  
 **A/N:**  This fic is complete and I'll post one chapter per day. Thank you, as always, to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for her wonderful beta-ing! The story incorporates the following prompts: loss of vision for [](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/) , vibrator from [](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/profile)[**50kinkyways**](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/) , and physical imperfection from [](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/) .

Previous chapters [**here**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Hope&filter=all).

 **  
Five  
**

 

Spike had committed a great many crimes over the past hundred-plus years. Most of them, however, had been what criminologists call crimes against persons: murder, rape, kidnapping, mayhem. All the fun crimes. He’d never been much for property crimes, except as a bit of an afterthought. His material needs had been minimal and could generally be satisfied by rifling through the pockets of his victims.

Rupert, on the other hand, apparently had some experience in this field, and it was he that planned the burglary. Initially he intended to nick the stone himself, but Spike nixed that right off. “I am _not_ letting you near that rock without me, love,” he said very firmly.

So Rupert blathered on about his scheme, and Spike half-listened because he knew what his part would be: avoid tripping over anything and make certain his lover didn’t get zapped by mojo. Simple.

By the time Rupert had his scheme laid out they were back near the Argonaut. They leaned against the railing again, listening to the creak of mooring ropes. “It’s not especially late yet,” Rupert said. “Would you like to go for some drinks or… perhaps to a club?”

Spike raised an eyebrow at him. “A club, Rupert?”

“Yes. I have heard of them, you know. I’ve been in them.”

“In this millennium?”

Rupert grabbed him quickly, wrapping an arm around him very tightly. “And there’s another,” he growled into Spike’s ear.

Spike’s cock had, as he’d ordered it to, slept through dinner and after, but now it woke up quite suddenly. “Let’s just go to our room,” he rasped back.

The door had barely shut behind them before Rupert was tugging at Spike’s clothing. Spike tried to reciprocate, but Rupert batted his hands away. “Not now, boy. Onto the bed at once.”

Spike scurried there without a shred of dignity. He fell onto the mattress on his back, but Rupert rolled him onto his belly and then spent ages simply running his fingers and palms over Spike’s skin, until Spike was struggling to keep from squirming and pressing into his touches. At long last, he was rewarded by a light slap on his rump and a murmured, “Good boy.”

A moment later, Rupert was strapping a ball gag into Spike’s mouth. Spike would have resisted—he didn’t fancy the bloody things at all—but Rupert petted him and soothed his tensed muscles, and whispered, “It’s only to keep the volume down. Mustn’t have the neighbors complaining to the hotel management.” And that made sense, so Spike stilled and allowed Rupert to fasten the buckle and then kiss Spike on the temple.

“Now, don’t move,” Rupert said, swatting him again—not nearly hard enough. The mattress shifted as he stood and there was the rustle of a plastic bag. Then Rupert came back and the bed dipped as he sat on it.

“So beautiful,” said Rupert, rubbing at Spike’s lower back and then fondling his buttocks. “Like a work of art.”

Now, praise was lovely, and it was especially lovely from Rupert’s mouth, but right then Spike wanted more. He wanted touch. He made a quiet sort of whine and Rupert chuckled. “Still so impatient after so many years.” He tickled at the top of the cleft of Spike’s arse, just a light dancing of fingertips that made Spike want to sob with frustration. But then to Spike’s relief those fingers delved a bit deeper and Spike realized that they were slick. With a great effort of will, he didn’t go up on his knees and waggle his arse.

Rupert hummed softly to himself, some tune Spike couldn’t quite recognize, as he slowly worked his fingers farther south, until they were pressing just on the outside of Spike’s hole. “You want some pain, don’t you?” Rupert asked. “A nice sharp caning, perhaps, or perhaps even a whipping.”

Spike nodded and moaned his agreement. He did want pain because he was worried now about Rupert and about Angel, and anxious that he might not be up to saving either of them, let alone both, and pain would be a sort of penance for his weakness.

“If you actually fancy the pain, giving it to you wouldn’t be any sort of punishment, would it?” Rupert said.

Spike couldn’t argue with the gag in his mouth.

And then Rupert inserted one of his fingers into Spike, sliding it all the way in and making Spike automatically press back. “Uh!” Rupert said, stopping at once. “No moving.”

When Spike had remained motionless for several moments, Rupert slid his finger about and then added a second. He gently stretched the tight muscles, easing Spike’s thighs farther apart with his other hand. “I did a bit of shopping today, after I’d finished at the library,” Rupert said, sounding smug. He swiftly withdrew his fingers from Spike’s body and then, just as fast, stuck something else back in, something hard and slightly cold.

“Roll over,” Rupert ordered, lightly pushing at Spike’s side. Spike did and he lay there with his limbs splayed, knowing he must look quite a sight with the gag and his scars and his one remaining ball and his desperately hard cock. But perhaps he was a sight Rupert appreciated, because for several moments Rupert just stood there very close to the bed, only the slight hitch of his breathing revealing his interest.

“I’m going to take a bath,” Rupert said at last. “A nice, _long_ bath. And while I am, you’re not to move, not one bit. You understand?”

Spike made a sound that he hoped conveyed both his understanding and his annoyance.

“Good boy,” Rupert said. There was a slight click and then, with no warning at all, the plastic thing that Rupert had put in Spike’s arse began to vibrate.

“MM!” Spike said in protest.

“No moving,” Rupert repeated. And then the git walked away.

Spike heard him shuffling about in the loo. He heard the water rushing against porcelain and then, faintly, Rupert’s sigh of pleasure as he lowered himself into the bathtub. But Spike couldn’t fully focus on those small sounds because the bloody vibrator was moving inside him. It had some sort of random setting so that one moment it had a slow, steady pulsing and the next it was buzzing hard against his prostate. It was driving him around the bend and his hands ached with the need to touch himself, to bring himself off. In his head he cursed Rupert in a dozen languages.

Rupert took the longest bath in the history of mankind. It lasted for decades. In fact, Spike was nearly convinced the man must have died of old age and was even then a sodden skeleton, sunk to the bottom of the tub. But the only movement Spike made was the uneven in and out of his chest as he took in extraneous oxygen.

A million years later Rupert finally came out of the bathroom. He spent another bloody eon standing over the bed, no doubt measuring whether Spike had repositioned himself at all. “Good boy,” he said at last, and Spike let out a long breath of relief through his nose.

The vibrator clicked off and Rupert drew it out. He climbed on the bed, positioning himself between Spike’s spread legs, and gently pushed at Spike’s feet. “Up, dear,” he said.

As fast as a vampire could, Spike drew up his knees, bending himself nearly in half. Then Rupert’s warm, hard cock was replacing the infernal plastic inside him, and Rupert’s weight was pressing along Spike’s body, and Spike was craning his neck up so Rupert could lick at his lips that were stretched over the gag. It took only two or three of Rupert’s thrusts before Spike came. When his climax shuddered to an end he angled his hips upward a bit, offering every inch of himself to Rupert, and Rupert took him hard and fast and bloody brilliant.

After Rupert came, he spent several minutes slumped over Spike’s body. Spike could feel the man’s heart beating against his chest almost as if it were his own. Finally Rupert stirred himself enough to unbuckle the gag and remove it carefully. He kissed at the lines it had made in Spike’s skin.

“I’m not sure I have the stamina for this any longer,” Rupert said softly, but there was a note of humor in his voice.

“Did just fine, love.”

“You did, too.” Rupert rolled off him and pulled the blankets up before drawing Spike tightly into his arms. “You were very good.”

Spike sighed with contentment. “I try to be good for you, pet.”

“I know.”

With a feeling of peace and relaxation that was made sweeter by his knowledge that it would likely be short-lived, Spike slipped into sleep.

 

***

 

Secretly, Spike thought that Rupert’s burglary plan was more complicated than necessary. For one thing, it involved costumes. But Rupert seemed to be enjoying this bit so much that Spike wasn’t willing to ruin his fun. Still, he couldn’t help but complain a little.

“I look a complete prat.”

“No you don’t. You look like a dashingly handsome university student.”

Spike snorted. Rupert had allowed him his usual black jeans and Docs, at least, but had insisted that Spike wear a sweatshirt that had a word printed on the front. “Cal,” Rupert had told him. Lovely. And Spike’s hair wasn’t slicked back at all. But instead frothed all over his scalp in ridiculous curls, which Rupert kept running his fingers through. And Spike had a _backpack_ , a bloody backpack.

“Stop looking menacing,” Rupert warned him. “Try intelligent instead. Or bored. Students are quite good at that.”

“Can’t help it. Vampire.”

“Can’t you channel a bit of William, just for a short time?”

Spike huffed. It wasn’t fair. Rupert’s kit wasn’t really a costume at all, but just his usual Goin’-to-Council wear: tweed suit and glasses and briefcase. Spike was certain Rupert looked suitably professorial.

They wound their way across campus, through the early-evening crowds. Spike caught snatches of conversation as they went and mused on the fact that student concerns hadn’t changed so much in over 130 years: romantic interests, unfair professors, meddling parents who didn’t hand over enough dosh, social plans for the weekends. But Spike got a bit too distracted by a boy who was describing his girlfriend’s assets to his mate in rather vivid detail, and Spike tripped over the edge of a planter box, nearly falling on his face.

“Hey! You okay?” said a concerned female voice.

Spike was glad he couldn’t blush. “’S what comes of not looking where I’m going.”

“Do you need some help?” She sounded hopeful, not pitying. She smelled like fruit candy.

He smiled at her. “Nah, I’ll manage, love. Cheers.”

He hurried to catch up with Rupert, the sound of female giggling following him. He heard her whisper to someone, “Oh my God! He was so cute! And did you hear that accent?”

Rupert was waiting for him at the doors to the building. “Stopping for a chat, were we?” he asked.

“Can’t help being irresistible, can I?” Truthfully, it was good for his ego to hear that birds still found him attractive despite the scars.

Rupert snorted.

The hallways were crowded as well, students walking to and fro or milling about, some leaning against walls and clicking away at their mobile phones. But with a bit of concentration Spike could make his way around them well enough. Even if they were silent, their scents gave them away as did the heat their bodies emitted. They smelled like the Scoobies used to: junk food and lust and sunshine and paper. He wondered if Buffy and Willow missed this, if they still wished they’d been able to finish their degrees like normal people.

Rupert paused for a moment. “There’s a light on in the laboratory but nobody’s in there,” he said very quietly.

“Then let’s get it over with before someone shows up.”

More loudly, Rupert responded, “Come this way, Mr. Pratt, and I’ll fetch those artifacts I wish you to study.”

“Sure, Professor Giles,” Spike said in his worst American accent.

The door was locked, but Rupert fiddled at it for a moment with something metallic—Spike stood in the way, blocking bystanders’ view—and the knob clicked open. Rupert entered quickly with Spike right behind him; Spike shut the door firmly.

The drawer with the stone in it was locked as well, but Spike was able to yank it open without any problem. Universities just weren’t built to be vampire-proof. He knew as soon as the drawer was open that the object was still there—he could smell it, dusty and ancient and sickening.

“Are you all right?” Rupert asked.

“Yeah.” Spike shrugged off the backpack, unzipped it, and drew out a hotel towel. Then he placed the backpack on the counter. He wrapped the towel around his hand.

“Spike, let me—”

Spike simply growled back. He and Rupert had been over this bit several times. If someone had to touch the thing Spike sure as hell wasn’t going to let it be the man he loved. Before Rupert could put up more of a fuss, he reached into the drawer and grabbed the stone with his covered hand. The rock was about the size of a laptop, albeit thicker and considerably heavier. He briefly considered just dropping the bloody thing. Perhaps it would shatter into a million pieces and that would be the end of their problems. Or perhaps it would unleash an apocalypse. With a sigh, he tucked the thing into the backpack, towel and all, and zipped the pack closed. “Let’s go.”

They left the lab, trying not to seem too much in a hurry. Nobody seemed to pay them any mind as they retraced their steps through the building and back outside.

“ _That_ was an easy bit of larceny,” Rupert said, sounding very pleased with himself.

“Don’t expect anybody much wants to steal all the bits of shite they have lying about in an anthropology lab.”

“Well, it helped that you weren’t looking as sinister as usual tonight.”

Spike was deciding whether that was a compliment or an insult when he smelled strawberry candy. “Hey!” said a familiar voice. “Are you sure you don’t need any help?” By the tone, she was offering to be more than guide-dog.

“Sorry, love,” Spike laughed, and he grabbed Rupert’s arm in his. “I’m off to shag the professor. Think he’ll give me a good mark?”

There was a moment of stunned silence and then an eruption of feminine laughter.

  
[Chapter Six](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/235240.html)

 

 

 

  



	6. </strong> Hope

  
  
  
**Entry tags:**|   
[50kinkyways](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/50kinkyways), [angst_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/angst_bingo), [hc_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hc_bingo), [hope](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hope), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike%2Fgiles)  
  
---|---  
  
 _ **Hope (6/10)**_  
 **Title:**  Hope   
 **Chapter** : 6/10   
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Giles  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:**  I'm not Joss  
 **Summary** :  A sequel to [**Trust**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all) and [**Faith**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all). A trip to San Francisco brings new challenges to Spike and Giles--and some unexpected visits from their past.  
 **A/N:**  This fic is complete and I'll post one chapter per day. Thank you, as always, to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for her wonderful beta-ing! The story incorporates the following prompts: loss of vision for [](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/) , vibrator from [](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/profile)[**50kinkyways**](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/) , and physical imperfection from [](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/) .

Previous chapters [**here**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Hope&filter=all).  
  


 **Six**

 

Spike didn’t get to shag the professor, at least not right then. Neither of them fancied leaving the Old Ones’ artifact simply lying about their hotel room. So Rupert drove them north, over the Richmond Bridge and into Marin County.

The Wiccans were waiting for them in a quiet residential neighborhood: three women and one man. They greeted Rupert at the door but when Rupert turned to introduce Spike one of the women hissed. “That’s a vampire!”

Rupert sighed. “Yes, I’m aware of that, thank you. He’s _my_ vampire, actually.”

A long, very awkward silence followed, and then another woman with a reedy voice said, “Is it _blind_?”

“Yes, _he_ is blind and quite capable of speaking for himself,” Spike snapped back. He was going to just stomp back to the car but Rupert restrained him with a gentle hand on his arm.

In his most patient Explaining Voice, the one he used to pull out when Buffy and the others were being deliberately thick, Rupert said, “This is Spike, formerly known as William the Bloody. He is a vampire but he’s also my lover. He has a soul.”

It was the man who spoke next. “Your lover? How could you do that with…with a demon?”

“Spike may be a demon but he is also the best man I have ever known. He has saved me and saved the world more times than I can count. I trust him completely. Now as you know, we have a matter of potential urgency. You must place your faith in us both.”

Spike couldn’t help but smile a bit at Rupert’s words. And perhaps Spike looked a bit less scary with that smile because the tension lifted a little and then one of the women, the one who’d spoken first, said, “Okay. I guess.”

Rupert remained at Spike’s side in the doorway.

“You have to invite me in,” Spike said as if speaking to a dim child. “’T’s the rule, innit?”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. “Um…you’re invited, Will—er, um Mr. ….”

“Spike will do,” he said and stepped over the threshold.

The house was overheated and smelled of magic and potpourri. His nose itched and he rubbed at it with irritation.

“Did you get it?” asked the man.

Rupert said, “Yes.” Then he put his arm around Spike’s shoulders. “We’ve some work to do with the stone, Spike. It involves magics and I believe you’d be better off if you stayed well away.”

Spike scowled. “Why? So the nasties can get at you more easily?”

“I’ll be fine. But some of these magics may behave unpredictably in close proximity to a supernatural being such as yourself. We’ll be just out back in the guest cottage.”

Spike’s frown deepened but he nodded. He wasn’t going to be any use to Rupert if he got turned into a toad, and at least he’d be within hearing distance if a disaster happened. Rupert gave him a small kiss on the side of the head. “There’s a living room off to your left.”

The woman who’d invited him inside said, “Tracy, you stay here with the vam—with Spike.”

“Okay.” The third woman sounded very young, perhaps still in her teens.

Rupert gave Spike a squeeze and then lifted the backpack off his shoulder. Spike listened as Rupert and the others walked across wooden floors and then out a back door.

“Do you want to sit down?” Tracy asked. “They’ll probably be a while.”

Spike nodded again. He followed her through a doorway but then immediately collided with a small table, sending what sounded like a pile of magazines crashing to the floor. “Sorry!” Tracy exclaimed. “This room’s a pretty big mess. Can…can I help you?”

Feeling useless and defeated, he nodded for a third time. Tracy hesitantly slipped a hand into his—hers was small and smooth and very warm—and tugged gently at him. She managed to get him to a sofa without incident, and then she sat next to him. “Sorry about Mom and Dad,” she said. “They were really rude.”

“I expect they were surprised to find a vampire on their doorstep.”

“Well, yeah, but still. I mean, we know Mr. Giles is a good guy and he wouldn’t bring a monster to our house.”

“Vampire, love. Falls pretty neatly under ‘monster.’”

“They shouldn’t be so racist, though. People used to think all witches were evil—some of ‘em still do—but we’re totally not.”

Spike relaxed a bit against the cushions. He decided he liked this girl. She reminded him a little of Dawn. “I used to be evil,” he said. “Used to be the Big Bad.”

“But now you have a soul.”

“Yeah.”

“How’d that happen?”

“’S complicated.”

“Oh.” She was silent for a moment but he could almost hear her think. “Do you mind me asking—I don’t know what the, the etiquette is or anything, ‘cause I never met…. How _old_ are you?”

“I was born over 150 years ago.”

“Wow! That is _so_ cool! Dude, you must have seen so many things! Uh…no offense.”

He chuckled. “I have seen many things. Didn’t go blind until recently.”

“I kinda thought vampires had, like, super healing.”

“Not this time.”

“Oh,” she said again.

He heard the intake of breath as she began to ask another question, but before she could get a word out he was startled by something jumping onto his lap. A cat. It kneaded at his thighs, purring.

“Hey!” Tracy said happily. “Scooter likes you! He usually hides under my bed when people are over.”

Tentatively, Spike lifted a hand and stroked Scooter’s soft, furry back. Scooter purred louder and arched into his touch. “Is he your familiar?” he joked.

Tracy laughed. “Nope. Just a normal kitty-cat. He’s black, though, so that’s cool. I found him when he was just a kitten and I was, like, 13, and Mom and Dad didn’t want me to keep him ‘cause Dad has allergies, but I had sort of an epic pout and they gave in. Dad can take his Claritin.”

Scooter butted his head against Spike’s palm and then curled up into a contented ball. Spike quite fancied the small weight of the creature in his lap. Stroking the creature’s back was calming. It helped distract him from his worries about Rupert.

“Um, Spike?” Tracy said after a time.

“Yeah?”

“Do you—I can kinda read people. Like, their auras. Sort of. And yours is kinda…funky. Is that normal for a vampire?”

“Dunno. What’s it look like?”

“It’s kinda…. Most people have a single shape. And the shape changes color and form, but there’s just one. You have three.”

His eyebrows went up. “Three?”

“Yeah. There’s two really strong ones—one of them is kind of tannish and it looks a little like a pen or pencil. And the other strong one looks like a lion, but black. The other one is really faint, like a shadow almost. It’s a sort of Batman-looking guy with a cape.”

“A _cape_?”

“Yep. No bat ears, though. Maybe he’s more like Superman—it’s kinda hard to tell.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Is something wrong?”

He sighed. “Dunno. I think I’m being…haunted.”

 

***

 

Rupert and the others were gone for ages. Long enough for Spike to tell Tracy about the recent Angel mystery, and because that led to even more questions, he ended up telling her a good bit of his own history and the poof’s as well. As he spoke, she oohed and aahed and exclaimed, making an altogether appreciative audience, and Scooter purred away on his lap. It wasn’t an unpleasant way for him to pass the time.

Then, just as he was in the middle of telling Tracy about the time he’d saved Rupert from those Vis Legis gits in Budapest, Scooter stood and stretched, digging his claws lightly into the denim over Spike’s legs, and then hopped off and trotted away. A moment later the back door opened and Rupert and the others came trooping back in. They reeked of mojo.

“No hellholes or alternate dimensions fallen into?” Spike asked, rising to his feet as Rupert entered the room.

“No, not even a small one,” Rupert replied. “And how have you been getting on? I’m sorry it took so long.”

“No worries. Did you find anything out?”

“Yes. But we haven’t long until the sun rises and you won’t fit in the Viper’s boot. Let’s head back to the hotel and I’ll tell you all about it.” He sounded knackered, Spike thought.

Tracy gave Spike a small but fierce hug before they left. “It was so cool talking to you!” she said. Rupert thanked her parents and the other woman for their help and then he and Spike went out to the car.

“Did you leave the whatsit there?” Spike asked as they pulled away.

“Yes. They’ve a warded box. It should be quite safe.”

The car’s tires hummed beneath them as Rupert merged onto the highway. Spike pulled at his sweatshirt. “I’ll be happy to be rid of this.”

Rupert patted his knee. “I’ll be happy to rid you of all your clothes, my boy.”

Spike smiled at him. “So…what is it?”

“It’s definitely an artifact from the Old Ones and it has mystical qualities. I believe it may be a sort of…homing device.”

“A what?”

“The Old Ones traveled between dimensions quite often. But cross-dimensional travel’s no simple thing, not even for a god, and it would have been difficult for them to control the precise location where they landed. It would be like, well, like a blind man shooting an arrow at a target. This device may have provided sort of a beacon for them, permitting them to emerge exactly where they wished. Or where others wished. I believe this stone may once have been part of a temple dedicated to the Old Ones.”

“So when their followers prayed they’d have some insurance the buggers would actually turn up.”

“Yes,”

Spike thought for a few minutes. “This rock, then…if it’s here, does that mean we’re in danger of one of these gods turning up at any time?”

“Most of them are dead, Spike.”

“And is that any more of a barrier to them than it is to me, pet?”

Rupert sighed. “I don’t know.”

“What if we destroy the bloody thing?”

“I’m not at all certain it can be destroyed. It’s lasted thousands of years. And if we tried, well, sometimes these things have protections. Any attempts to damage it could prove disastrous.”

“Lovely.”

“The warding spell it’s under should last for a short while, anyway. A week or two. That will give us time to do—”

“More research. Right.” They were on a bridge now, the waves crashing against rocks far below them, the smell of brine thick in Spike’s nose. “The witch girl, Tracy, she said something interesting while you lot were messing about outside.”

“Oh?”

“She saw my aura—it was double, she said. Which makes sense. The soul and the demon. But there was something else there as well.”

“What?” Rupert sounded instantly worried.

“A third aura, fainter. Had to be Peaches.”

Rupert drove in silence for a while. They descended from the bridge and began to turn their way along the city streets. “It makes sense,” he said at last.

“What does?”

“That Angel would be…attached to you in some way.”

Spike made a sour face. “Wanker.”

“He may have been a wanker but he was your direct forebear. You had contact with him, off and on, for over a century. And you were there when he dusted.”

At that moment, Spike very much wished he could see Rupert’s face. “That…that _contact_ …. Does it bother you?”

“Spike, I knew you weren’t exactly a blushing virgin when we met.”

“Yes, but….”

“And I know you care for Angel a great deal. You love him.”

Spike sputtered. “That…that nancy-boy, brooding, holier-than-thou—”

“You don’t fool me one bit, my boy. And it’s fine, it really is.”

Spike sucked on his teeth for a moment. “So if I did fancy the tosser—not saying I do, mind you!—but if I did—”

“I wouldn’t take it amiss. You’re heart’s big enough to love more than one person.”

“My heart’s dead, Rupert. All shriveled up like a sodding walnut.”

“Hardly.” Rupert pulled the Viper to a halt and turned off the engine. Spike could hear the valet parking attendant trotting on over, but before he could get out of the car, Rupert stayed him with a hand on Spike’s shoulder. “You are ruled by your heart and always have been. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

As they entered the hotel, Spike reckoned he must be amusing the staff with his foolish grin.

[Chapter Seven](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/235639.html)

    
 

  



	7. </strong> Hope

  
  
  
**Entry tags:**|   
[50kinkyways](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/50kinkyways), [angst_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/angst_bingo), [hc_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hc_bingo), [hope](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hope), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike%2Fgiles)  
  
---|---  
  
 _ **Hope (7/10)**_  
 **Title:**  Hope   
 **Chapter** : 7/10   
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Giles  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:**  I'm not Joss  
 **Summary** :  A sequel to [**Trust**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all) and [**Faith**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all). A trip to San Francisco brings new challenges to Spike and Giles--and some unexpected visits from their past.  
 **A/N:**  This fic is complete and I'll post one chapter per day. Thank you, as always, to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for her wonderful beta-ing! The story incorporates the following prompts: loss of vision for [](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/) , vibrator from [](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/profile)[**50kinkyways**](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/) , and physical imperfection from [](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/) .

Previous chapters [**here**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Hope&filter=all).

Posting tomorrow's chapter early because I'll be gone all day tomorrow.

 **Seven**

 

When Rupert was especially exhausted, he snored. Loudly. So Spike sat in one of the hotel room’s chairs, glaring at the sleeping man. Which did no good at all, of course, since Spike was blind, Rupert was unconscious, and the room was almost completely dark. It didn’t even make Spike feel any better. But he had nothing else to do, because the clicking of his laptop keyboard might wake Rupert up and Spike had destroyed his iPod when he was inside the bloody coffin.

So he simply sat and glared; and when Rupert’s mobile phone began to play a horrible pop song and Rupert made a mumbled cry and clicked on the light, Spike glared at the phone instead. “Go back to sleep,” he ordered.

“That’s Malcolm. He programmed the ringtone himself.”

Spike growled but he grabbed the phone off the chest of drawers and slid it open. “What?”

“Somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed,” Malcolm replied cheerily.

“Somebody is a creature of the night who doesn’t take kindly to being awakened in the middle of the morning,” Spike snarled back, although of course he’d been awake anyway.

“How’s San Francisco?” Mal asked, not in the least put off. “I’ve never been to the States, you know. Next time there’s a project there I’m going to insist on being sent.”

“It’s lovely. We have poncy vampire ghosts and ancient god homing beacons.”

But Mal was in a chipper mood—two weeks off shagging one’s boy in the Canaries could do that, Spike reckoned—and he only laughed. “Life is never dull around you, Spike.”

Spike grumbled something obscene in reply.

“D’you want me to tell you what I’ve found out, Mr. Crabby, or shall I speak with Mr. Giles instead?”

“You’ve found something out?” Spike’s mood improved considerably and Giles hurried over to lean in close so he could hear as well.

“I have,” Mal said, a trifle smugly. “I was reading through Valdez’s _Cr_ _ó_ _nicas_ , you see—my Spanish has quite improved; I daresay my holiday was useful that way—and he was relating this incident that occurred in the mid-sixteenth century when—”

“Bloody hell, whelp. Just cut to the chase.”

“I think what happened was that the Old One who, who rescued you—”

“Illyria.”

“Yes, Illyria. I believe she tried to rescue Angel as well. Only he had already, erm, been dusted, so whereas she was able to drag your body out of there, she was only able to catch onto a bit of his…his soul, I expect. It might still have been hanging about in the alley, as he’d only just died. The fact that he had no physical body likely meant his journey through the alternate dimension was much less…trying…than yours.”

Spike made a small sound and Rupert squeezed his shoulder.

Malcolm continued. “But when Illyria returned you both to this world, Angel had no body, no corporeal self to reinhabit. Normally he would have moved on to the afterlife, I believe, but perhaps the jaunt through dimensions bollocksed things up.”

“He always was a contrary git. So he’s not completely dead, but certainly not alive. Here, but not here. But why is he only now haunting me? It’s been nearly two years.”

“Yes, I know. Perhaps Illyria brought him back after you—time connections between dimensions are quite slippery. More likely, though, it’s taken him this long to get himself organized and to find a way to communicate. It’s not easy to affect the material world when one is entirely insubstantial.”

Spike thought back on his own days as a ghost and he nodded. It had taken time and concentration for him to affect physical things, and he’d been less…ethereal than Angel was now. “Right, then,” Spike said. “The old sod can’t be happy like this. How do we bring him back? Or kick his spectral arse into his final reward?”

After a pause, Malcolm said, “I don’t know. But I’m working on it! In fact, I was hoping perhaps Mr. Giles would have some advice on how to tackle—”

“Hang on,” Spike said. He handed the phone to Rupert, stood, and padded over to the bed. He slipped between the blankets—the bedding was still nice and warm—and wrapped the pillow around his head to drown out some of Rupert’s conversation. But before he fell asleep, and in a voice too quiet for Rupert to hear, Spike whispered, “We’ll find a way, sire.”

 

***

 

Rupert woke him up in the nicest imaginable way—with soft kisses on the nape of Spike’s neck and a hard cock pressing up against his arse.

“Woke up randy, did you?” Spike said, pushing back a bit against him.

“No, you woke up Randy, as I recall. I remained Rupert Giles.”

“But you were engaged to Anya.”

“And you shagged her. On camera.”

“Oi! Didn’t know there was a camera, did I?”

As they had this conversation, Rupert’s hands were wandering, stroking here and tweaking there, and when he wasn’t speaking he was gnawing lightly on Spike’s skin, so that Spike’s cock was very quickly as hard as Rupert’s.

“Perhaps I should record us sometime,” Rupert said. “Let you hear how sexy you are when I have you at my mercy.”

“’M always at your mercy,” Spike groaned as Rupert’s fingers crept between his legs, softly petting the tender skin behind his ball. Spike bent his upper leg, giving better access.

Rupert hummed his approval against Spike’s back.

After that, nothing coherent passed their lips for some time, just grunts and moans and half-swallowed expletives, as Rupert moved inside him—long, slow strokes of agonizing pleasure—and Rupert’s hands never remained on any part of Spike’s body for longer than a few seconds. It was lazy lovemaking, and every time Spike tried to speed things up, Rupert just stopped, so that eventually Spike gave in and simply allowed himself to sink into the sweet sensations. It was all good. He knew he’d get his end away eventually and the journey there, he was slowly learning, was as good as the destination.

Rupert came first, plunging deep inside him with a drawn-out moan. He shocked Spike a moment later by biting at Spike’s neck, very hard, just over Spike’s long-gone pulse-point. Spike climaxed hard, electric jolts running through every nerve in his body and his untouched cock spurting against hotel linens. Rupert licked delicately at his neck while Spike shuddered with aftershocks.

“Bloody _hell_ ,” Spike gasped when he could pull air into his lungs again. “Neat trick, Watcher.”

“Perhaps I’ve spent too much time amongst vampires.”

“Well, you can bloody well spend more if that’s the result.”

“So you’re in a good mood now?”

“Hmm.” And then, after a moment, Spike added suspiciously, “Why?”

“Because I’ve an idea about how to help Angel, perhaps.”

Spike pulled himself out of Rupert’s embrace and sat up, arms crossed on his chest. “’M not going to like it, am I?”

Rupert sat up as well. He shifted about, leaning back against the headboard. “No, I don’t expect you will. But you can veto the scheme if you want. I won’t force this on you.”

Spike chewed at his lip and then, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and tensing as if he were preparing for a painful blow, he said, “Well? What is it, then?”

It took a long time for Rupert to respond. Just when Spike was nearly ready to shake an answer out of him, Rupert said, “We ask Illyria.”

“What?!” Spike thought perhaps now his hearing was going as well.

“We ask Illyria. She yanked the two of you about like puppets to begin with; she’s an ancient god with knowledge about cross-dimensional travel. She’s the most likely person to know how to sort this problem.”

“She’s not a person at all, mate!”

“True, but she must have at least some small touch of human emotions, or why would she have bothered to try and save you two? Most likely she didn’t understand what she was doing to Angel—she apparently tortured you quite by accident. She might be willing to help again.”

“Some help!” Spike snorted. “And how are we to contact her anyway? Ring 118 for directory enquiries? ‘Hello, number for blue demon god, please.’”

“We don’t need directory enquiries. We have the stone.”

“But…you said the stone is a homing beacon. Didn’t say anything about it being a ruddy mobile phone as well.”

“It was the best analogy I could find, Spike. What it is—at least I’m fairly certain—is a mystical extension of an Old One. It’s a bit like…like if you chopped off your fingers and were then able to sense their location as a method of finding your way.” Rupert sighed loudly. “I’m afraid it’s quite difficult to explain. Suffice it to say, the stone is a part of the Old One, and can be used by the demon to pinpoint a particular location—or for communication purposes. To be summoned by its followers, even.”

Spike bounced out of bed and paced the few feet between the bed and the wall. He ran Rupert’s words through his head, trying to make sense of them. But then he stopped. “Even if you’re right about the stone, how do we know it will call Illyria? Perhaps we’ll end up ringing a different god, one who’s not nearly so friendly.”

“Spike, most of California was Illyria’s territory, and we believe the stone originated in or near what is today Joshua Tree National Park.”

“But you just said the stone was part of the god!”

“Not the rock itself. The rock is…a vessel, imbued with some of the god’s essence. It’s like, well, like the Eucharist, I expect.”

“Enough with the bloody analogies!” Spike yelled. This magical shite made his head ache. He took a few calming breaths and then collapsed onto the mattress. “Do you even know how to _use_ the bloody rock?”

“No, not yet. But we can suss it out.”

“Yeah, I reckon you can.” Spike was beginning to wish he’d remained asleep, even though that would have meant missing that brilliant shag. “Right then. You suss out the mojo and ring Blue, she shows up and tells us how to sort the poof, and all’s well, yeah?”

“That’s the general idea,” Rupert said wearily.

“And you won’t summon the wrong demon or get Blue when she’s in a really foul mood, and she’ll know just what to do and she won’t simply decide to drag my arse through…through that place again.”

“I told you. We don’t have to do this. Perhaps we’ll come up with a better idea, one that’s less hazardous.”

“How long will that take?”

“I don’t know.”

Spike sank his face into his hands and they were both silent for ages. When Spike did speak again, it was very quietly. “When he spoke to me…through the computer, yeah? He sounded…. He said please. Wanker never says please.”

“You believe he’s distressed.”

“When I was…. At first, in LA, it wasn’t just that fucker Pavayne that had me in misery. It was…not being _real_ , love. Not being able to touch, to feel. That was hell enough, even without the flames. Hell, I’d almost've welcomed the pain of burning.”

Rupert drew him into his arms and held him very tightly, not saying anything but just being there, which was good enough. Spike had never wanted to reveal his frailties in front of others—on rare occasions he slipped, but he tried bloody hard not to. With Rupert he could let his masks fall and allow his true self to show. That was wonderful.

Spike kissed Rupert’s still-naked shoulder. “Let’s ring Blue,” Spike said.

  
[Chapter Eight](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/236051.html)

    
 


	8. </strong> Hope

  
  
  
**Entry tags:**|   
[50kinkyways](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/50kinkyways), [angst_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/angst_bingo), [hc_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hc_bingo), [hope](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hope), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike%2Fgiles)  
  
---|---  
  
 _ **Hope (8/10)**_  
 **Title:**  Hope   
 **Chapter** : 8/10   
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Giles  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:**  I'm not Joss  
 **Summary** :  A sequel to [**Trust**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all) and [**Faith**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all). A trip to San Francisco brings new challenges to Spike and Giles--and some unexpected visits from their past.  
 **A/N:**  This fic is complete and I'll post one chapter per day. Thank you, as always, to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for her wonderful beta-ing! The story incorporates the following prompts: loss of vision for [](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/) , vibrator from [](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/profile)[**50kinkyways**](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/) , and physical imperfection from [](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/) .

Previous chapters [**here**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Hope&filter=all).

 **Eight**

 

Rupert intended to spend the evening researching how to use the stone to summon Illyria. But Spike was restless and anxious, and besides, there were others who could do the research just as well. Better, since Rupert only had the Internet available while Malcolm had the Council library and Willow had a good-sized library of her own in Scotland. So Spike rang them both and ordered them to bury themselves in books. Malcolm knew why already and much of his formerly good mood had been replaced with worry. Spike didn’t tell Willow many details—no point getting her and Buffy and the rest all tied up in knots—but she was savvy enough to know something was up, and she made him promise a full explanation later.

Meanwhile, Rupert kept click-clacking away on the laptop, barely seeming to notice Spike at all.

“Bugger this,” Spike grumbled to himself. He took a long, hot, lonely shower, got dressed, and tidied his hair. When he was finished, he stepped out of the loo and, quite loudly, said Rupert’s name.

Although he couldn’t see his lover’s reaction, he could picture it: Rupert pausing for a moment in his typing and looking absently up from the screen, only to freeze in surprise when he saw Spike. Spike was wearing the kit Mal had sent him: the butter-soft black leather trousers that were nearly as tight as his own skin and a silk shirt in, Mal had said, a rich royal blue. Instead of slicked back, his hair was done up in spikes, much as he’d worn it in the late '70s, and he’d even traced a bit of kohl under his scarred eyes.

“Good Lord,” Rupert said in a voice gone all husky.

Spike gave his very best leer. “Like what you see, old man?”

“Magnificent.”

When Spike touched his own scars he felt ugly, deformed. He imagined himself a hideous beast, something akin to Joseph Merrick, whom Drusilla had once dragged him to see in Brussels. But then Rupert would touch him gently, like he might touch a priceless work of art, or he’d call him beautiful, and at least for a time Spike would believe. So now he preened, turning slowly about and waggling his arse a bit, giving Rupert a little show.

Rupert responded with an appreciative wolf whistle. “I take it you had something non-mystical in mind for the evening?”

“A night with me is _always_ magic, pet.”

Rupert snorted.

In his best bad-boy swagger, Spike prowled over to the table where Rupert sat and draped himself over Rupert’s back. “Let’s go out tonight. Dinner someplace nice, perhaps a club.”

“You won’t force me to dance, will you?”

Spike sucked and nibbled a bit on Rupert’s neck. “Can make it worth your while.”

In response, Rupert clicked the laptop shut. “Give me a few minutes to dress.”

 

***

 

Spike had expected Rupert to take them to a seafood place—the man had a serious hard-on for Dungeness—or perhaps some posh place where everything came on tiny plates and the waiter could tell you the name of the bloke who caught the sustainably harvested sturgeon you were eating. Instead, Rupert had the doorman hail them a cab and they ended up in Chinatown at a tiny second-floor place that was redolent with spices and where everything tasted fiery and brilliant, even to Spike’s vampire palate. They drank a thousand tiny cups of jasmine tea as they ate, and a few bottles each of Tsingtao. Their waitress, who sounded middle-aged, fussed over them considerably, calling them both “shuaige,” and when Spike spoke to her in passable Mandarin he thought she was going to offer to adopt him.

After endless courses, Spike and Rupert finally waddled their way down to the street again. They had to walk a few blocks toward Union Square to a hotel to find a cab. This time, Spike gave the address to the driver, and he refused to tell Rupert where they were going.

“Is it going to be full of eighteen-year-olds and techno music?” Rupert asked warily.

“Nah. Although those were lovely places to hunt, once upon a time. Could eat half the patrons right there on the dance floor without anyone noticing.”

“Let’s avoid massacres this evening, if you please.”

Spike knocked his head gently against Rupert’s. “You take all the fun out of things.”

The cab took them to a place somewhere near the Castro/Noe Valley dividing line. Spike had been there once before—with very different motives—and he hoped it hadn’t changed much in the intervening decade. “The Gentlemen’s Club?” Rupert said as they climbed out of the car.

“House music and go-go boys,” Spike teased, tugging Rupert by the hand. “Come on, then.”

Rupert continued his half-feigned reluctance until they entered the place, and then he stopped in his tracks. “It looks like the Council library,” he announced.

Spike smiled, pleased that they hadn’t altered the décor. “Yeah, but I’ll wager the patrons are a good sight prettier than your dried-up old Watchers.”

“You do have a point.”

Rupert led them to a plush booth and a bloke with a deep southern drawl came promptly to take their order. The room was lively with conversations but they weren’t overwhelming in volume and someone on a piano played songs that were old long before Rupert was born. “How do you know this place, Spike?” Rupert asked.

“Was in the city briefly with Dru, in between Sunnyhell disasters. We’d been feeding on homeless people and junkies and such, but Dru went off for a few nights to sing to the stars over Golden Gate Park, and I was in the mood for something a bit more refined than what we’d been eating. Fewer drugs, less disease, yeah? Found this place by accident. But it was so…so quiet. So _not_ Dru. I didn’t even kill anyone, just sat and drank and…and pretended to be human, perhaps.”

“I hadn’t known that appealed to you before the soul.”

Spike shrugged. “Usually it didn’t. But every now and then…. I expect William would stick his poncy little head up for a few hours.”

Rupert scooted closer on the bench seat so that his thigh was pressed tight against Spike’s. “Well, I’m glad you found it. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy something a bit rougher when I was young—I saw the Stones and the Sex Pistols at The Marquee—but now….”

“Now you’re old and decrepit,” Spike finished for him, squeezing gently at Rupert’s denim-covered groin. Of course, their waiter reappeared just then and set their drinks down on the table with a chuckle.

After he walked away, Spike said, “I’ll wager he thinks you’re a bloody hero, caring for the poor disfigured blind sod.”

“And I’ll wager he thinks I’m a…a cradle robber. A dirty old man.”

Spike laughed. “My sugar daddy? I reckon you are, at that.”

“I’m _not_.”

“Yeah?” Spike took a sip of his Jack. Not Bushmills. “You pay my way don’t you? Everything I own, you bought me. Everything…everything I _am_ is because of you. You found me broken and you mended me and—”

“Bollocks. We’ve mended each other, Spike. I pay for things because I can, and because you must save your money for when I’m gone. No pension for you, I’m afraid.”

“Rupert—”

“No. You listen.” Rupert’s voice had grown quiet, intense. “When I found you I had nothing left but myself, and that was hardly company enough. I was engaging in…questionable…acts. I was lost. But because of you I’ve found my, my family again. I’ve found myself. My life has meaning again because of you.”

“Then why endanger it again and again? This shite with Illyria—”

“May end very badly. Spike, I don’t want to die. But when I do…if I die tomorrow, I won’t do it bemoaning my fate, because I’ll die _complete_. Do you understand?”

Spike was silent for a long time, toying with his glass, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Are you saying I complete you, Rupert?”

Rupert grabbed Spike’s shoulders, twisting Spike’s torso about so they were facing one another. “You are the most irritating, aggravating, magnificent creature I have ever met,” he said and he leaned his head over for a deep and passionate kiss that left Spike feeling dizzy despite his not actually needing to breathe.

When Rupert pulled away again, he scooted out of the booth and tugged Spike to his feet. “Let’s dance, my boy.”

The pianist was playing something slow and romantic, a tune that Spike vaguely recognized from eighty years or so earlier. Rupert led him to a spot not far from the piano, where a few other pairs of feet were shuffling slowly, and drew him into a close embrace.

They’d never danced before and Spike had to remember to let Rupert lead, but that was easy because they were mostly rocking together, bodies tight from chest to groin. Rupert’s hands were large and heavy on the small of Spike’s back, his breath hot on Spike’s cheek, his heart strong and steady against Spike’s chest. Spike lost himself in the dance.

 

***

 

They danced until the pianist stopped playing and said, “Sorry, guys. Time to call it a night.” Reluctantly, Spike and Rupert pulled on their coats and the waiter walked them to the door.

“I gotta tell you,” the waiter said before they left, “I been workin’ here a good while and I seen a lotta guys. But I ain’t never been as envious of any of ‘em as I am tonight. Y’all take care, now.”

The night had turned cold and damp, with the fog settling thickly. But they didn’t try to find a cab. Instead they strolled slowly, their fingers entwined, not speaking. It was a long walk and they had the streets mostly to themselves, with only an occasional car rumbling by.

At the top of a steep hill Spike smelled coffee and maple syrup and heard muted conversation. Rupert steered him into an all-night diner—blissfully warm—where they both ordered tea and Rupert had some toast and eggs as well. Spike eavesdropped a bit on the other customers—a trio of university students who’d been to a concert, a man in the corner by himself who ordered cup after cup of coffee, a pair of tourists who were still on German time, four Iraqi cab drivers, two stoned hippie types with the munchies. Everything was slow and dreamlike, even their waitress, as if they were caught in some magical place where this hour could last a lifetime.

But eventually Rupert’s food was eaten and Spike could feel dawn itching at his skin. He’d have some extra time with the fog, but weather patterns in this city were unpredictable and he didn’t much fancy turning a corner into bright sunbeams.

They walked the final mile or so more briskly. When they arrived back at their room, Rupert insisted on peeling off Spike’s clothing himself—he seemed to like the feel of it under his hands—and then his own, and they climbed into bed. They didn’t make love. Instead, they were content to cuddle together, and Spike fell asleep half-sprawled over Rupert, his head pillowed on the broad shoulder.

 

***

 

Rupert rang off and set the phone onto the table. “It’s rather simple, as it turns out.”

“Oh? Can’t reckon why folks don’t call on hellgods all the time, then.”

“Hmm,” Rupert replied absently, moving about the room, pulling on his clothing. “We shall require a few supplies, however. Willow said that although the summoning magic is not complicated, it is specific.”

Spike leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Lovely. So if we make a mistake we get turned into purple cricket bats or we transport ourselves to Outer Mongolia. Or we summon the wrong sort of god.”

Rupert walked over, leaned down, and kissed the top of Spike’s head. “We’ll be fine. I’m going to the shops now to pick up the supplies, and then to San Rafael to fetch the stone. We’ll do the spell soon after sundown.”

“Here?” Spike asked, thinking that a hotel was perhaps not the best place to summon an unpredictable, powerful demon.

“No. Someplace more isolated. I was thinking perhaps that abandoned factory, the one where….” His voice trailed off.

“Where you had me turn that bloke?”

In a clipped tone, Rupert replied, “Yes.”

“All right.”

“Do you want to rest up some more while I’m gone?”

Spike shook his head. “Rested enough already. Was considering taking my laptop to the lobby for a bit. It’s sunproof, yeah?”

“Some interesting nautical-themed décor and a nice fireplace, but not a window to be seen.”

They took the lift down together and Rupert helped Spike settle himself in a plush, oversized armchair. “I’ll be back in an hour or two,” Rupert said and then left.

Spike inserted his earbuds and spent some time surfing, finding what bits he could about Illyria and the Old Ones. There wasn’t much, and he didn’t learn anything he didn’t already know, but at least he felt a little less useless doing something.

He was in the midst of a site on demon mythology when the computer’s voice sputtered to a stop. A moment later it started again, but this time it was Angel’s voice, faint and ghostly. “William.”

“Liam,” Spike whispered, wondering whether there was anyone watching him, perhaps ready to drag the blind man to the loony bin since he seemed to be talking to himself.

“Please….”

“Working on it.”

There was a pause, as if Angel was surprised to learn an attempted rescue was in process. Then, “Can’t…too much nothing…nowhere….”

“I know,” Spike sighed. “Soon.”

“Thank you,” Angel said. Spike wasn’t sure his sire had ever said those words to him before.

“Just hang on.”

Static loud enough to hurt his ears burst from the headphones, and then the computer was back, droning on about J’raygi mating rituals.

There was so little Spike could do in this situation. He was worthless with magics, he was terrified of what would happen—to himself, to Rupert—if Illyria made her command appearance, he wasn’t at all sure she’d be willing or even able to help Angel. But cowering and whinging wasn’t going to help either, so he decided to do the one thing he could. Spike decided to hope.

 

***

 

The warehouse still smelled of old blood.

This time, Rupert held Spike’s arm, helping to maneuver him around discarded bits of machinery and piles of rubbish. Every footstep echoed loudly.

“What if we do this hocus-pocus and we blow up the neighborhood?” Spike asked.

“Then the city of Fremont will have new open spaces.”

“No great loss then,” Spike said, attempting cheerfulness.

Rupert snorted quietly, then stopped walking. “I think it’s best if you stay here, near the edge. I’ll place the stone in the middle of the room.”

Spike nodded. He leaned back against the metal wall and wished he still smoked. His hands drifted about restlessly until he stuffed them in his duster pockets. Rupert walked away; there was the quiet thud of stone onto concrete, and then a bit of shuffling as Rupert set things out. “I’m placing some candles around the stone now,” he explained. “Pure beeswax. And some small amounts of spices: sea salt, asafoetida, gum arabic, saffron.”

“Sounds like that horrible stew Buffy tried to make when we last visited.”

“I rather think Buffy’s stew would be more appropriate for repelling things instead of attracting them.” Rupert came closer again and leaned up next to Spike, almost close enough for their shoulders to touch. “It’s just a simple chant in primordial Sanskrit now. You needn’t join in.”

“Well, that’s good. My primordial Sanskrit’s a bit rusty.”

Rupert ignored him. “Heda hrcchaya havirad. Svargadvara vaimanika leka yama. Illyria.” He repeated the short phrases more loudly. A heavy air of expectation hung in the room, and Spike smelled the sweet, smoky scent of the burning candles and the odors of the spices, and the dust and rusted metal and damp concrete of the old factory. And then, as Rupert said the chant for the third time, Spike smelled something else as well: that place Illyria had taken him, where he’d endured endless unendurable tortures. He caught his breath and shrank back more tightly against the wall.

Rupert stopped chanting.

Light footsteps came their way, clicking as if the person were wearing hard heels. “Why have you called me here, half-breed?” said a familiar—and not especially happy—voice.

“Blue,” Spike managed to say.

She came even closer until she was only inches away from them. “This human smells like you,” she announced. “But he also smells a little like Wesley. Why?”

“He’s a Watcher, like Wes once was. And he’s mine—or I’m his. One and the same anyway. His name is—”

“Don’t bore me with inconsequentials. Why did you call me? Does he intend to be my priest?”

“Erm, no—” Rupert began.

But Spike interrupted. “’Fraid not. I wanted to…to thank you. For saving me.” That was a difficult thing to say, especially considering _how_ she’d saved him, but he reckoned she’d meant as well as a demon god was able and it couldn’t hurt to be appreciative.

“Your frail body could not withstand the journey.”

“No, it couldn’t. But…cheers for the effort.”

He could feel the weight of her stare. “You have not recovered fully?”

“No. I…there are limits to my ability to mend.”

“Your kind has many limits,” she sniffed derisively.

“I expect we do.”

“But this human…this Watcher…he has feelings for you despite your defects?”

Rupert answered. “Very much so. I love him.”

“I do not understand this thing you call love. I understand devotion to one’s gods, but to care for another human—or half-breed—this way…it is inexplicable.”

“No arguments from me on that, love,” Spike said. “But just because we can’t explain it, doesn’t mean it isn’t important.”

She was quiet a moment and he could picture her, head cocked at him the way a bird of prey might look at an interesting field mouse. “You were a fighter,” she finally said. “A warrior. Are you content to exist this way…weakened?”

“I miss my vision, but yeah, I’m content. I still fight. And there are other things worth carrying on for.”

“Such as your love for this human.”

“Yes.”

“But he will soon grow old and die and you will not.”

“Then I’ll cherish the time I do have.”

She made a dismissive sound. “It’s only the blink of an eye.”

“Valuable nonetheless.”

Her heels clicked as she stepped back a bit. “Wesley also had a very short time with this vessel, yet she was important to him.”

Spike swallowed thickly. “She was important to all of us.”

“I will have to think about this at length. But not here. This world bores me.”

“Well, you can toddle off home then. But in a mo’, love. I’ve two things to ask you first.”

“You presume to demand favors of me?” she replied sharply.

“Just small ones. And one of them will benefit you as well.”

“What, then?”

“When you took me out of that battle and brought me to…to that place…you brought Angel as well, didn’t you?”

She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke he could almost imagine a tinge of regret in her tone. “I was too late to salvage his shell.”

“I understand. There was a lot going on. Sodding dragons. But you brought him with you anyway, yeah? Without his body.”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “And when you took me back here—and thanks for that—did you bring him then as well?”

“Perhaps. A spirit is such an insubstantial thing to keep track of—like smoke from a chimney. But yes, he did seem to be attached to you. I think he tried to protect you in that other dimension. Foolishness. If I could not protect you, how could he?”

Spike was alarmed to find himself blinking back tears. Rupert had been wisely silent this entire time, but he grabbed Spike’s hand and squeezed it.

With a sniff, Spike said, “Well, here’s the thing. He’s here now, but he’s sort of a ghost. Which is a very unpleasant thing to be.”

“Yes,” she replied. “This shell…she was there when you were incorporeal. It distressed her.”

Spike nodded. “Is there some way to…to get Angel’s body back? Or at least help him move on.”

“His body is destroyed. It is outside my powers to reconstitute it. And I know nothing about the dimensions humans refer to as the afterlife. They are outside my realms. I don’t know how to send him there.”

“Then he’s stuck for eternity? He was a bastard sometimes and Angelus was a monster, but he tried to redeem himself. Bollocksed it up, but he tried. He doesn’t deserve that, Blue.” He was ashamed of the pleading in his voice, but couldn’t stop it.

She came in close once more and again regarded him carefully. “You love him as well?”

“Yeah.”

“So strange.” She stroked his face, very gently. Her hands were as cold as his but soft. “Strange,” she repeated. “If you wish to save him, simply find him another shell to inhabit.”

“You mean…a corpse?” Spike asked hopefully.

“No. The body must be living when he takes possession.”

“But what about the body’s original owner? He’ll be destroyed, just like Fred—”

“No. She was destroyed because I am a god, a pure demon. Angel is merely the spirit of a half-breed. He will share the body with the other presence, much as your body is shared now by two presences, although with less integration, I think. It is hard to say. The host would benefit as well—they would probably have the same small taste of immortality that all vampires have.”

“Could he share with me?”

She laughed. “Of course not! The host must be human and alive.”

Honestly, Spike was relieved. The thought of having his Sire permanently in his head was terrifying.

“I tire of this conversation,” she said loudly. “What is the other request?”

Rupert answered. “The stone we used to summon you—can you tell us how to destroy it?”

“No need.” She walked back across the floor. Spike couldn’t see what she was doing, of course, but there was a subtle shift of energies in the room and then the sound of shattering stone. “I have taken my essence back. I do not wish to be called to this tedious place again.”

“That’s excellent,” said Rupert. “Thank you.”

“I may someday understand this thing you call love. You will all be long gone by then, but I will think upon it.”

“Good luck, Blue,” Spike said.

In a soft voice—Fred’s voice—she replied, “You too.” And then there was a sound like a sonic boom and she was gone.

  
[Chapter Nine](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/236524.html)

    
 

  



	9. </strong> Hope

  
  
  
**Entry tags:**|   
[50kinkyways](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/50kinkyways), [angst_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/angst_bingo), [hc_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hc_bingo), [hope](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hope), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike%2Fgiles)  
  
---|---  
  
 _ **Hope (9/10)**_  
 **Title:**  Hope   
 **Chapter** : 9/10   
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Giles  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:**  I'm not Joss  
 **Summary** :  A sequel to [**Trust**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all) and [**Faith**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all). A trip to San Francisco brings new challenges to Spike and Giles--and some unexpected visits from their past.  
 **A/N:**  This fic is complete and I'll post one chapter per day. Thank you, as always, to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for her wonderful beta-ing! The story incorporates the following prompts: loss of vision for [](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/) , vibrator from [](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/profile)[**50kinkyways**](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/) , and physical imperfection from [](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/) .

Previous chapters [**here**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Hope&filter=all).

  


 **Nine**

 

“You were incredibly brave.”

“Don’t patronize me, Rupert.”

Rupert reached over and squeezed his knee. “I wasn’t. That was admiration. I know how difficult that was for you—she terrified me and she barely even noticed me. But you were strong.”

“My knees were shaking the entire time, mate.”

“It didn’t show.”

Rupert stopped long enough to pay the bridge toll and then they were rumbling over the Bay again, early morning commuters already slowing their way. A lorry chugged next to them, filling the air with diesel fumes. Spike remembered how pretty the city looked as it was entered like this: all sparkling, fairy-tale lights and impossible hills and shining buildings, with the boats snugged cozily against the piers.

The Viper turned off the bridge and made a few twists before, Spike reckoned, they were cruising down the Embarcadero. He could hear the tram lines buzzing beside them.

“Didn’t do us much good, though, did it?” Spike finally said.

Rupert was able to pick up the thread of the conversation. “The stone is destroyed. That’s very good, I’d say.”

“All right, yeah. But Angel…. What kind of fool’s going to want to be a Siamese twin with that wanker?”

Mildly, Rupert replied, “Actually, I was thinking I might be that fool.”

All the sounds suddenly seemed to come at Spike from far away, as if he were at the end of a very long tunnel. “ _What_ now?” he croaked.

“Let’s…let’s wait until we’re inside to discuss this. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Spike didn’t want to wait a bloody second. On the other hand, he wasn’t certain he could trust either his ears or his mouth right then, so he clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt and he glared blankly at the passenger side window. When they pulled up in front of the Argonaut he must have inadvertently glared at the valet as well, because the poor bloke stammered out a promise to take good care of the car. The generally chipper doorman silently held the building’s doors open, and the girl at the registration desk didn’t call out her usual hello.

As soon as the door to their room closed Spike stood facing Rupert, his arms crossed on his chest. “No fucking way,” he said.

Rupert sighed. “At least hear me out before you throw a tantrum.”

“Hear you out? You’ve gone completely ‘round the bend. Ought to be fitting you for a straitjacket.”

“It’s perfectly logical, Spike. I’ve been possessed before, you know, by beings considerably more unpleasant than Angel. He has his faults but he’s neither Moghon nor a Fyarl. So I know what I’d be letting myself in for and I’m still willing.”

“Those other possessions—those were short-term jobs. And you’ll remember how much fun they were!”

“Yes, I know. But this will be different. Think about it for a moment! Angel will be rescued from limbo and you—you’ll have both the men you love in one package.”

“You said you didn’t fancy sharing me.”

“I don’t, Spike. But…this is a unique situation. And you loved him long before you loved me.”

“Never was much for threesomes,” Spike snarled.

“We’ll organize a scheme to…to take turns.”

“Take turns! Rupert, I won’t have you bloody…compromised like this!”

“I won’t be compromised. We can think of it more as…enhanced.”

Spike growled and turned to stomp away, but Rupert stepped forward and grabbed his shoulders. “I want to do this,” Rupert said.

“You don’t even bloody like Angel! He tortured you…killed your girl….”

“I remember quite well, thank you. But for you I’m willing to do this. Besides, I tortured you and you still love me.”

“Wasn’t you! Was that demon!”

“And it was Angelus, not Angel, if you want to be picky about it. And yes, I realize that Angelus and Angel are not nearly as different as Angel would like to believe. But if you don’t know that Moghon was…was amplifying some of my own impulses, that I’ve done some fairly dodgy things quite without demonic assistance, well then you don’t know me very well.”

Spike could only growl in response.

Rupert _tsk_ ed. “That’s hardly a civilized response, my boy.”

“But I’m _not_ civilized! I’m a monster. And so will you be if you do this.”

“I won’t. I’ll still be a middle-aged former high school librarian and the man who loves you. And sometimes I’ll step aside and you’ll have Angel, who shall have to be satisfied with a rather less attractive package than he was used to.”

Spike’s anger wavered as he imagined Peaches looking into a mirror and seeing Giles looking back out. Rupert would look ridiculous with his hair spiked. But then Spike twisted away from Rupert’s grip. “It could destroy you! Look what the bint did to me!”

“It may. Or it may not, and we could save Angel. And perhaps you’re forgetting, but I might benefit as well. Illyria said the host wouldn’t age, that he’d inherit a vampire’s strengths.”

Spike blinked. He _had_ forgotten that bit in the shock of Rupert’s offer. “Would you be unable to go out in sunlight as well? Would you need an invite before going in someone’s house?”

“I don’t know.” He chuckled slightly. “And I don’t generally enter homes without an invitation anyway, so no great loss there.”

“Rupert—”

Rupert tugged him closer and wrapped his arms around Spike’s body. In a low and authoritative tone—the tone he bloody knew Spike couldn’t resist—Rupert said, “We’ve had an emotionally trying night. We shall eat and get some sleep and we can discuss this more in the afternoon.”

Spike let his muscles loosen a bit and he slumped against Rupert’s chest. When Spike gave a heavy sigh, the tightness in his chest released a little. “Fine. We’ll sleep on it. And then I’m ringing the Scoobies.”

 

***

 

Out of the lot of them, Spike had expected the biggest resistance from Xander. After all, Xander had never liked Angel. And despite the fact that he’d spent half his life amongst Slayers and witches, and that he’d shagged several supernatural or formerly supernatural women, and also despite his being in love with Buffy, the boy always had a deep distrust for the uncanny. But after Buffy, Willow, and Xander spent several moments gathered about their speakerphone in shocked silence, it was Xander who said, “And Giles would get to live forever?”

Bugger. That was _not_ the response Spike had hoped for. “He’d live forever with the poof in his head.”

“Giles is okay with this?” Buffy asked.

“Tosser’s being sodding noble. Doesn’t know what he’d be in for. I spent a day in a bloody mine shaft in Yorkshire with Peaches and that was agony enough.” Spike felt Rupert’s disapproving look but didn’t hand over the phone.

“Spike,” Buffy said, “you…. I know you love Giles. Still haven’t gotten over the weirdness of it, but hey, you loved Drusilla.”

“And you.”

In a softer voice, she said, “And me. So, okay, normal romantic choices and you, not so mixy. You love Giles and he loves you. I get that. I can even support it, strangely enough, because he’s happy and somehow you pull off being good for each other. But what about Angel?”

“Rupert can’t stand him but for some reason the git’s willing to share headspace with him.”

“No, I mean you. How do you feel about Angel? ‘Cause the way I see it, if we do this, you’re getting stuck with a two-for-one deal.”

Spike remained silent for so long that eventually she prompted him: “Spike? You still there?”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Peaches and me…’t’s complicated.”

“Summarize. Fifty words or less.”

“I…I love the old bastard as well.”

More stunned quiet on the other end.

Buffy finally said, “Since when?”

“Since…. Dru turned me. but he was my Sire, yeah? And until he got cursed, I looked up to him. Like…like a bloody puppy sometimes. Afterward, well, the soul was just too much. In Sunnyhell that time he was just plain barmy, with his daft scheme to end the world and all, as if that was any good to him or anyone. But then in LA, we…we reached an understanding of sorts. He still drove me ‘round the bend, but…yeah, I loved him.”

“And is this ‘love’ in the purely platonic sense? Or, or filial, maybe?” Xander asked.

Spike snorted. “Had yourself a bit of education, have you, whelp? No, I meant erotic love, carnal love, romantic love. All the fun, messy sorts of love.”

Xander replied, “Isn’t that, like, incest?”

Spike smiled when he heard the solid _thwack_ of Buffy hitting Xander.

Willow hadn’t spoken since the exposition bit of the conversation, when she’d asked some questions about the magics they’d used. Now she said, “Spike, what do you want to happen?”

“Dunno. Want Rupert safe. Want Angel…settled.”

“And if Giles stayed safe, could you handle the body sharing stuff?”

Spike chewed on his lip. “Yeah. I expect so.”

“Okay. Then we just need to make sure Giles is safe, and we’re all good.” She said it as if something had been settled.

“But—”

Buffy said, “Spike? Let me talk to Giles.”

He made a sour face and handed the phone over. He didn’t want to hear the conversation—he wanted Rupert to speak honestly to the Scoobies and not just say what he thought Spike should hear. So Spike grabbed his Kindle and earphones and made his way out of the room and down to the lobby.

A long time passed before Rupert sat in the big chair next to his. The hotel had a wine hour every evening and it had just begun, so Rupert handed him a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. Spike slipped off his headphones and took a sip. “Not bad.”

“It’s from up north. St. Helena. It was aged in Oregon oak.”

“Dru and I were near La Rioja once—must have been in ’37. People were running all about after Guernica was bombed. Good hunting, but then wars always are. We found this tiny village—the whole place had been abandoned. But one of the houses had an enormous cellar full of the most brilliant Cabernet. Drank more wine than blood for days. Dru actually bathed in the stuff.”

“I was in that region once. Late ’70s. Someone had discovered some interesting artifacts at a fifteenth-century monastery outside Arnedo and I was meant to fetch them. I was still being punished for my youthful indiscretions then and they sent me on all the most tedious errands.”

“Least those doodads didn’t ring any demon gods.”

“No, they didn’t. One of them gave me a terrible rash, though. I had to rub myself thrice daily with this horrible ointment—stale urine and powdered sulfur and crushed stinkbugs were among the ingredients—and nobody would come near me for weeks.”

“That must have been very distressing,” Spike said. “But not nearly as distressing as having Angel parked permanently in your cranium.”

Rupert’s glass clinked as he set it down on a table. He reached over and set a large hand on Spike’s leg. “William and your demon have reached a happy compromise, have they not?”

“’T’s different. We’re not…I’m not….” He scratched at his neck. It was always so hard to explain this. “In my case, the whole is greater than the sum of my parts, yeah? But Blue said you and Angel would be more separate—and he already has two parts as it is. It’s a sodding mess, pet.”

“We’ll work it out.”

Spike sipped at his wine. He knew he’d lost this battle—he’d never had a chance, really, as soon as the Scoobies failed to object—and his emotions were mixed to say the least. “What if you and the poofter disagree about what to do? Say you fancy a holiday in the Azores and he wants to brood in a crypt somewhere? Only one body, innit?”

“Then we shall have to take turns. But if there’s a real problem, you can be the tie-breaker, I expect.”

Spike’s eyebrows shot up. “Me?”

“But if you abuse that power…,” Rupert’s voice went all rumbly, “we shall have to punish you. I believe Angel is not averse to punishing you either.”

This was serious business—Spike’s cock should not have responded by hardening at once. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “And if the poof and I want to, erm….”

“Are you turning Victorian maiden on me, Spike? It would hardly be fair of me to allow Angel to reincorporate, only to deprive him of you. It won’t bother me if you two make love. Only…don’t forget me as well.”

Spike took a deep breath. “Could never forget you, love.”

 

***

 

As soon as dark fell they took the F-line trolley down Market Street. Rupert said that particular trolley car had come from Milan and still had the Italian signs inside. The car was crowded with tourists and locals both, and it was pleasant to jostle along for a bit, just listening.

They disembarked near Fourth Street and Rupert led them to the Apple store. The noise inside was disorienting, but holding Rupert’s arm, Spike could confidently walk to the iPod display. Spike tried out a few of the newer models—they were smaller but they used touch screens and were difficult for him to operate well. So he ended up with a Classic. “You won’t destroy this one, will you?” Rupert asked. “Even if it’s haunted.”

“Depends who’s haunting it.”

“Well, now’s as good a time as any to get used to having Angel near.”

After Rupert paid, they walked along slowly, up the hill toward Union Square. They stopped at a tiny Japanese place where Rupert ate noodles and Spike drank sake, then walked through the square itself. “T’s a nice city,” Spike announced. “Wouldn’t mind spending more time here when we’re not dealing with the Monster of the Week.”

“Wouldn’t mind it myself, actually. I wish we could find a better way to transport you, though.”

“Yeah. Don’t much fancy the cargo hold myself.”

They ended up returning to their hotel by cable car. It was touristy and a silly thing for a vampire to do, really, but Spike had to admit it was fun: the clanging of the bell, the thrumming of the ropes beneath them, the patter of the brakeman. When they got off at the end of the line, they found a 7-Eleven where Rupert stocked up on American junk foods for Xander’s sake. They’d already bought some decent chocolates for the girls. This time the doorman was happy to see them, and he asked whether they’d had a good night. The girl at the desk was cheery as well.

Inside their room they undressed and took refuge together in bed, making slow and passionate love. No toys or games this time, just bare skin and whispered endearments. Spike pushed aside the thought that this was likely the last time the two of them would be alone in bed.

Rupert hadn’t been able to find them an evening flight to London. So in the morning he returned the hired Viper to the agency and returned with a panel van. It was foggy enough outside that Spike made it into the van without bursting into flames, and Rupert dropped him very near the airport terminal entrance, where Spike could slip inside—he managed not to collide with anyone—away from the big front windows. Rupert joined him a short time later.

Rupert had rung ahead, and one of his contacts met them in the terminal. Rupert checked his luggage first, and then the bloke led them through a maze of corridors and locked doors, until they were in a cavernous space where everything echoed. Spike kissed Rupert and lay down in another bloody coffin. “See you on the other side,” he said, and then someone locked the lid down.

Angel chimed in somewhere over Greenland, Spike reckoned, just as the wizard detective was about to find the stolen Shroud of Turin. “William,” Angel hissed through the earbuds.

“Liam. Been wondering when you’d show up. And don’t go whinging about being a ghost, because I’m locked up in a metal coffin at 30 thousand feet, and it’s not that much more fun. Bloody cold.”

“Will?” The poor sod just sounded confused.

“We’ll get you sorted very soon. We’ve a plan, a place to stick you. But I’m telling you now, if you harm one hair on Rupert’s head, I’ll make you wish you were a ghost again.”

“Help?”

Spike sighed. “Not much longer now. I promise.”

There was an answering sigh that sounded relieved, and then the bloke with the nice voice was back, nattering on about snake demons.

 

***

 

Buffy and her lot were happy to see them—or were happy to see the treats from San Francisco, anyway—and Spike and Rupert were quickly ushered into a cozy little room with a roaring fire. Someone bolted the door to keep out wandering junior Slayers. Buffy gave Spike a chocolate-scented hug and then moved over to embrace Rupert as well, and then they all found places to settle. Xander handed Spike a mug of blood. Sheep, but at least it was warm. “No Slayers’ blood this time?” Spike said with a leer.

“We’ll save that for special end-of-the-worldish occasions,” Buffy replied.

“So did you have a good flight?” Willow chirped.

“Can we save the small talk, please?” said Spike. “I’m knackered and I just want to get this over with. How soon do you reckon until you can work out the hocus-pocus, Red?”

“I already have. It’s not all that different than the times I jammed Angel’s soul back in, really, except not so much with the Orbs. I get to use sparklers this time!” She sounded enormously pleased about that for some reason.

“So…you could do it now?” asked Spike.

“Sure. I mean, if you guys are ready. Maybe you want something to eat first, Giles? Or an anti-jetlag nap? Or, you know, a scenic tour of Scotland.”

Rupert said, “No. Now, please.”

It was a simple affair. Willow ran to fetch her supplies. Then Rupert sat on a chair in the center of the room—he gave Spike a passionate kiss first, which caused the Scoobies to make uncomfortable noises but Spike didn’t bloody care—and everyone else stood back against a stone wall. Spike smelled the metal-sulfur odor of the sparklers and heard them spit, and he bit his tongue to stop himself from mumbling: “Remember, remember, the Fifth of November.” He was feeling a bit hysterical. But the witch was doing plenty of mumbling of her own, happily mangling Latin, Greek, _and_ Hindi, and the room felt suddenly extremely hot and close.

Rupert made a small noise—a sort of grunt of surprise—and Spike stepped towards him in alarm, but Buffy and Xander hauled him back. Buffy had to use all her strength to keep him in place a moment later, when there was a horrible screeching sound, but it didn’t last for long and then all was mercifully silent.

“It’s done,” Willow said breathlessly.

Spike wrenched himself free and ran to Rupert’s side. He collapsed to his knees beside the chair, reaching up to feel at his lover’s face. “Rupert? Love?”

After a silence that seemed to stretch for years, Rupert shuddered and sat up straight. “I’m all right, Spike. _We’re_ all right.”

  
[Chapter Ten](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/236919.html)

 

   
 


	10. </strong> Hope

  
  
  
**Entry tags:**|   
[50kinkyways](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/50kinkyways), [angst_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/angst_bingo), [hc_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hc_bingo), [hope](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hope), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike%2Fgiles)  
  
---|---  
  
 _ **Hope (10/10)**_  
 **Title:**  Hope   
 **Chapter** : 10/10   
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Giles  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:**  I'm not Joss  
 **Summary** :  A sequel to [**Trust**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all) and [**Faith**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all). A trip to San Francisco brings new challenges to Spike and Giles--and some unexpected visits from their past.  
 **A/N:**  This fic is complete and I'll post one chapter per day. Thank you, as always, to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for her wonderful beta-ing! The story incorporates the following prompts: loss of vision for [](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/) , vibrator from [](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/profile)[**50kinkyways**](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/) , and physical imperfection from [](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/) .

Previous chapters [**here**](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Hope&filter=all).  
   
 **The last chapter. Thank you for reading!  
**

 **Ten**

Spike handed the cup of Darjeeling to Rupert and then hovered over his chair. “Is there anything else you need, pet?”

“You may stop coddling me, Spike. It’s been two weeks, and I’m not an invalid.”

“But you’re—”

“I’m fine. I feel quite well. It’s nothing at all like when I was possessed by Moghon.” He tugged at Spike’s hand until Spike was sitting on his lap, head resting against Rupert’s shoulder.

“Is Peaches—”

“He’s still here. Give him a bit more time, my boy; it’s a lot to get used to. He was quite shocked over being suddenly forced to share my body.” He chuckled slightly. “And over our relationship. He hadn’t exactly expected to discover we were lovers. But he’s here and he’s aware, and I daresay he’ll be more present soon, ready to argue with you anew.”

“You’re going to have to work out a timeshare schedule with him.”

“I will,” Rupert said confidently.

“And you’re certain you’re all right?”

Rupert kissed Spike’s forehead. “If you ask me again, I’m going to punish you. I’m fine. Angel’s here, but it’s not distressing. It’s rather like having someone else in the room. He’s worried about you, though.”

“Me?”

“Your blindness. He’s concerned for your safety.”

“You tell that tosser I could still trounce his arse and—”

“I don’t have to tell him. He can hear you. And in any case, you can _show_ him. Malcolm rang while you were asleep; he said there’s a nest of vamps in the Docklands. I thought we might pay them a visit tomorrow night. It’s been some time since we were in London in any case.”

Spike perked up at that. He was in the mood for a good dust-up. “All right,” he said. “But you stand back and let me do the staking.”

“Sounds lovely. Now, it’s nearly sunset. Shall we go for a ride? Mage could use a good run.”

A bit reluctantly, Spike stood. “Fine. Wonder what the poof will make of riding horseback again. He likely hasn’t sat saddle since the nineteenth century.”

Rupert slurped at his tea, set the cup down, and rose to his feet. “Perhaps the activity will help draw him out a bit.”

Spike nestled up close against his lover. “Can think of another activity that might draw him out even better,” he purred.

“Hmm. After our ride and some supper.”

“My activity involves riding. Could involve supper as well,” Spike said, nibbling delicately at the crook of Rupert’s neck.

Rupert hissed quietly and then squeezed Spike’s arse. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I am.” The corners of his lips twitched in a smile. “And Rupert?”

“What?”

“Are you certain you’re all right?” Spike laughed and ran for the back door with Rupert in hot pursuit.

   


***

 

The holiday had been Rupert’s idea. He'd been the one to arrange passage aboard the _Queen Mary 2_ and had used his contacts to permit Spike to board at night. 

“This is not much bigger than the hold I crammed myself into on the way to Ellis Island.”

Spike snorted and slapped Angel’s arse. He knew it was his imagination, but somehow that arse actually felt different when Angel was in control. “This stateroom is much more comfortable than a ship’s hold and that food you’ve been sliding down your gullet’s bloody well better than rat’s blood. Besides, you should try spending eleven hours locked in a coffin in a semi-pressurized hold. Believe me, this is loads better.” He bounced a bit on the mattress to emphasize his point.

“I wouldn’t have to travel in a coffin. I could sit in comfort in business class, have a few drinks, flirt with the flight attendants….”

“Git,” Spike said, spanking Angel again.

But Angel laughed and pulled Spike tightly against him and swatted Spike’s arse, which was still sore from his morning’s bon voyage adventures with Rupert. Turned out the Watcher had a bit of a sailing kink.

Angel nuzzled into Spike’s neck— _he_ still had a neck kink—and Spike inhaled. Angel smelled…like Angel. Like his Sire. But his body was warm and his heart was beating, and underneath Spike could also sense a bit of Rupert’s odor, which meant Rupert was there as well, silent but observing.

Abruptly, Angel sat up. “I think there’s a dessert buffet on deck five. You want anything?”

“If you stuff your face then it had bloody well better be you who spends an hour or so in the fitness center.”

Angel spanked him one more time and then climbed out of bed. He shuffled about the tiny room, no doubt searching for a kit he deemed suitable. “Giles said I could do most of the eating. He doesn’t care.”

“He will if you end up big as a Chorago.”

Angel hmphed and finished dressing. “You want something to eat too before I go?”

“Nah.” Spike waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “I’ll have a bite when you get back.”

This time Angel snorted, and then he left.

Spike spread himself on the bed, hands laced behind his head. He considered getting up and fetching his laptop but decided he was too lazy. He was knackered—even a vampire got tired out shagging two enthusiastic lovers. It was a very pleasant way to get tired out, though. Perhaps when Angel returned he could ask if Rupert would take over and read to him for a bit. He was much better at it than Angel and had infinitely more patience.

Rupert had arranged to hire a van once they arrived in New York. It would be a longer journey than their last one, but considerably more comfortable for Spike. Rupert had suggested that they take their time traveling across the country. They could sightsee a bit, like ordinary tourists. Well, maybe not so ordinary.

Eventually they would make their way to San Francisco. Apparently the university hadn’t tied them to the theft of the stone, or perhaps the officials there simply hadn’t cared enough over a useless rock to pursue the matter. In any case, they wouldn’t have to worry about being arrested. Rupert wanted to thank the coven in San Rafael for their help and Spike reckoned he wouldn’t mind speaking with Tracy again. He wondered what she’d make of Rupert’s aura now.

Spike was looking forward to spending some time prowling one of his favorite cities. Angel had never visited—his time as a ghost didn’t really count—and Spike expected he’d like it. They could visit the Gentleman’s Club and, if Spike was feeling evil, perhaps he’d drag the poof someplace livelier as well. Someplace where he’d be forced to dance.

Spike was snickering over that idea when the cabin door opened and Angel came in, sitting heavily on the mattress.

“All the food’s gone already?” Spike asked.

Angel poked him in the side and then collapsed next to him. “I may have left a crumb or two. But, God! You have no idea how good food tastes!”

“I almost remember sometimes,” Spike sighed.

After a brief pause, Angel said, “Does it bother you? Being a vamp still when I can get a suntan?”

Spike considered that for a moment, then shrugged. “Dunno. It’s like my vision…I miss it, but I don’t really dwell on it much. ‘T’s the way things are, just like I’m a devastatingly handsome bloke. I’m happy you can go out in the day; you’re always lovely and warm when you come back in. How about you? Satisfied with being part-time?”

“It’s a hell of a lot better than where I was.” He laughed a bit. “It’s not heaven, but man, it really beats the alternatives. But…what’s the deal?”

“What deal?”

“You and Giles were kinda living like a pair of country squires, and now we’re travelers. But are we gonna _do_ anything?”

Spike rolled onto his side and frowned at Angel. “Do? Do what?” he asked uneasily.

“Like…battle evil. Okay, I know that sounded pretty lame. It’s just, I’m not ready to be out of the game. Not yet.”

“You’re not as strong as you used to be. Human body.”

“But still damned hard to kill. And you’re not what you used to be, but you can still fight, Spike. You convinced me of that yourself, the way you took care of those vamps in London.”

Spike wondered what Angel’s earnest, brooding expression looked like on Rupert’s face. “You’ve something specific in mind, haven’t you?”

“Um…yeah,” Angel admitted.

With a heavy sigh, Spike said, “Well, out with it then.”

“I was just thinking…we’re gonna be in California anyway. And it’s only about 300 miles from San Francisco to LA….”

“And?”

“And I’m kinda wondering what Wolfram & Hart’s been up to since that alley.”

“Oi! You’re as bad as Rupert! We’re meant to be on a sodding holiday.”

“Yeah. I know. But…come on, Spike. We’re freaks. There isn’t even a _name_ for whatever Giles and I are. Did you really picture us just spending our vacation taking snapshots and buying souvenirs?”

No, Spike really hadn’t. And, honestly, he wouldn’t even be content with that sort of journey; not for long anyway. But he wasn’t about to admit that out loud. He sighed again. “Fine. If it’s all right with Rupert we can go to bloody LA. Least Rupert and I can outvote you next time you make another of your daft schemes. And I get to choose the music we listen to as we drive.”

Angel stroked Spike’s arm tenderly. “I think we can beat the bastards this time. Especially if we can bring Buffy and the other Slayers on board. I really do.”

Spike knew that Angel was probably fooling himself. Those lawyers were _dangerous_. But there was always a chance, he reckoned, so long as they weren’t all dust. He smiled slightly at the feeling in his chest; he had finally learned to hope and he was becoming rather good at it. He cupped Angel’s jaw in his hand. “You just might be right, pet,” Spike said quietly, and leaned in for a kiss.

 

 

 _~~~fin~~~_

 

 

 

 

 

   
 


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